he's the best girl--'Y gory, the best girl in the
world. But she will forget to chop the hash over night!"

As George Brotherton, bumping his head upon the eternal stars, turned
into the street, he saw the great black hulk of the Van Dorn house among
the trees. He smiled as he wondered how the ceremonies were proceeding
in the Temple of Love that night.

It was not a ceremony fit for smiles, but rather for the tears of gods
and men, that the priest and priestess had performed. Margaret Van Dorn
had taken Kenyon home, then dropped Lila at the Nesbit door as she
returned from South Harvey. When she found that her husband had not
reached home, she ran to her room to fortify herself for the meeting
with him. And she found her fortifications in the farthest corner of the
bottom drawer of her dresser. From its hiding place she brought forth a
little black box and from the box a brown pellet. This fortification had
been her refuge for over a year when the stress of life in the Temple of
Love was about to overcome her. It gave her courage, quickened her wits
and loosened her tongue. Always she retired to her fortress when the
combat in the Temple threatened to strain her nerves. So she had worn a
beaten path of habit to her refuge.

Then she made herself presentable; took care of her hair, smoothed her
face at the mirror and behind the shield of the drug she waited. She
heard the old car rattling up the street, and braced herself for the
struggle. She knew--she had learned by bitter experience that the first
blow in a rough and tumble was half the battle. As he came raging
through the door, slamming it behind him, she faced him, and before he
could speak, she sneered:

"Ah, you coward--you sneaking, cur coward--who would murder a child to
win--Ach!" she cried. "You are loathsome--get away from me!"

The furious man rushed toward her with his hands clinched. She stood
with her arms akimbo and said slowly:

"You try that--just try that."

He stopped. She came over and rubbed her body against his, purring, with
a pause after each word:

"You are a coward--aren't you?"

She put her fingers under his jaw, and sneered, "If ever you lay hands
on me--just one finger on me, Tom Van Dorn--" She did not finish her
sentence.

The man uttered a shrill, insane cry of fury and whirled and would have
run, but she caught him, and with a gross physical power, that he knew
and dreaded, she swung him by force into a chair.

"Now," sh