the glory of her presence; the whole street turned after her
as though some high wind had blown human heads backward when she passed.
They saw a lithe, exquisite animal figure, poised strongly on her feet,
walking as in the very pride of sex, radiating charms consciously, but
with all the grace of a flower in the breeze. Her bright eyes, her
masses of dark hair, her dimpled face and neck, her lips that flamed
with the joy of life, the enchantment of her whole body, was so complete
a thing that morning, that she might well have told her story to the
world. The little Doctor knew what her answer to Henry Fenn had been and
always would be. He knew as well as though she had told him. In spite of
himself, his heart melted a little and he had consciously to stop
arguing with himself that she had done the wise thing; that to throw
Henry over would only hasten an end, which her powerful personality
might finally avert. But George Brotherton--when he saw the light in her
eyes, was sad. In the core of him, because he loved his friend, he knew
what had happened to that friend. He was sad--sad and resentful, vaguely
and without reason, at the mien and bearing of Margaret Mueller as she
went to her work that morning.

Brotherton remembered her an hour later when, in the back part of the
bookstore Henry Fenn sat, jaded, haggard, and with his dull face drawn
with remorse,--a burned-out sky rocket. Brotherton was busy with his
customers, but in a lull, and between sales as the trade passed in and
out, they talked. Sometimes a customer coming in would interrupt them,
but the talk went on as trade flowed by. It ran thus:

"Yes, George, but it's my salvation. She's the only anchor I have on
earth."

"But she didn't hold you yesterday."

"I know, but God, George, it was terrific, the way that thing grabbed me
yesterday. But it's all gone now."

"I know, Henry, but it will come back--can't you see what you'll be
doing to her?"

Fenn, gray of face, with his straight, colorless hair, with his staring
eyes, with his listless form, sat head in hands, gazing at the floor. He
did not look up as he replied: "George, I just can't give her up; I
won't give her up," he cried. "I believe, after the depths of love she
showed me in her soul last night, I'd take her, if I knew I was taking
us both to hell. Just let me have a home, George,--and her and
children--George, I know children would hold me--lots of children--I can
make money. I've got mo