superior that locked door was an insult to be avenged, and she sat and waited for the moment to arrive when she would most adequately avenge it. There was still something terrifying in the idea of going out to do battle with Vincent. Hitherto in their quarrels he had always been the aggressor, had always startled her out of an innocent calm by an accusation or complaint. But this, as she said to herself, was not a quarrel, but a readjustment, of which probably he was still unaware. She hoped he was. She hoped he would come in with his accustomed manner and say civilly, "Forgive me for locking the door, but my reason was- And she would answer, "Really, I don't think we need trouble about your reasons, Vincent." She knew just the tone she would use, just the expression of a smile suppressed. Then his quick eyes would fasten themselves on her face, and perhaps at the first glance would read the story of his defeat. She knew her own glance would not waver. At the end of half an hour she heard the low tones of conversation change to the brisk notes of leave-taking. Her heart began to beat with fear, but not the kind of fear that makes people run away; rather the kind that makes them abdicate all reason and fan their emotions into a sort of inspiring flame. She heard the door open into the corridor, but even then Vincent did not immediately come. Miss Gregory had been waiting to say good-by to him. As a case he was finished. Adelaide heard her clear voice say gaily: "Well, I'm off, Mr. Vincent." They went back into the room and shut the door. Adelaide clenched her hands; these delays were hard to bear. It was not a long delay, though in that next room a very human bond was about to be broken. Possibly if Vincent had done exactly what his impulses prompted, he would have taken Miss Gregory in his arms and kissed her. But instead he said quietly, for his manner had not much range: "I shall miss you." "It 's time I went." "To some case more interestingly dangerous?" "Your case was dangerous enough for me," said the girl; and then for fear he might miss her meaning, "I never met any one like you, Mr. Farron." "I've never been taken care of as you took care of me." "I wish"-she looked straight up at him-"I could take care of you altogether.” "That," he answered, "would end in my taking care of you." "And your hands are pretty full as it is?" He nodded, and she went away without even shaking hands. She omitted her farewells to any other member of the family except Pringle, who, Farron heard, was congratulating her on her consideration for servants as he put her into her taxi. Then he opened the door of his study, went to the chair he had risen from, and took up the paper at the paragraph at which he had dropped it. Adelaide's eyes followed him like search-lights. "May I ask," she said with her edged. voice, "if you have been disposing of my child's future in there without consulting me?" If their places had been reversed, Adelaide would have raised her eyebrows and repeated, "Your child's future?" but Farron was more direct. "I have been engaging Wayne as a secretary," he said, and, turning to the financial page, glanced down the quotations. "Then you must dismiss him again.” "He will be a useful man to me," said Farron, as if she had not spoken. have needed some one whom I could depend on-❞ "I "Vincent, it is absurd for you to pretend you don't know he wanted to marry Mathilde." He did not raise his eyes. "Yes," he said; "I remember you and I had some talk about it before my operation." "Since then circumstances have arisen of which you know nothing-things I did not tell you." "Do you think that was wise?" With a sense that a rapid and resistless current was carrying them both to destruction she saw for the first time that he was as angry as she. "I do not like your tone," she said. "Why? What a question! Love-" These words, which so exactly embodied her own idea, came to her as a shock, a brutal blow from him. "Vincent!" she cried protestingly. "I don't know what it is that has your attention now, what private anxieties that I am not privileged to share―" "You have been ill.” "But not imbecile. Do you suppose I've missed one tone of your voice, or have n't understood what has been going on in your mind? Have you lived with me five years and think me a forgiving "May I ask what you have to forgive?" "Do you suppose a pat to my pillow or an occasional kind word takes the place to me of what our relation used to be?" "You speak as if our relation was over." "Have you been imagining I was going to come whining to you for a return of your love and respect? What nonsense! Love makes love, and indifference makes indifference." him for the old, rather pitiful association, me? The trouble was he did not make the right answer. When she said, "No, I It was one of those replies that change "Nobody," she answered, "need tell me such a thing as that twice." It was a fine phrase to cover a retreat; she left him and went to her own room. It no more occurred to her to ask whether he meant what he said than if she had been struck in the head she would have inquired if the blow was real. She did not come down to lunch. Vincent and Mathilde ate alone. Mathilde, as she told Pete, had begun to understand her stepfather, but she had not. progressed so far as to see in his silence anything but an unapproachable sternness. It never crossed her mind that this middleaged man, who seemed to control his life so completely, was suffering far more than she, and she was suffering a good deal. Pete had promised to come that morning, and she had n't seen him yet. She supposed he had come, and that, though she had been on the lookout for him, she had missed him. She felt as if they were never going to see each other again. I When she found she was to be alone at "You expect me to say I am indifferent to you?" "I care very little what you say. judge your conduct.” She had an unerring instinct for what would wound him. If she had answered with conviction, "Yes, I am indifferent to there would have been enough temper and exaggeration in it for him to discount the whole statement. But to say, "No, I still love you, Vincent," in a tone that conceded the very utmost that she could, namely, that she still loved luncheon with Farron, she thought of appealing to him, but was restrained by two considerations. She was a kind person, and her mother had repeatedly impressed upon her how badly at present Mr. Farron supported any anxiety. More important than this, however, was her belief that he would never work at cross-purposes with his wife. What were she and Pete to do? she thought. Mrs. Wayne would not take her in, her mother would not let Pete come to the house, and they had no money. Both cups of soup left the table almost untasted. "I'm sorry mama has one of her headaches," said Mathilde. "Yes," said Farron. "You'd better take some of that chicken, Mathilde. It's very good." She did not notice that the piece he had taken on his own plate was untouched. "I'm not hungry," she answered. "Anything wrong?" She could not lie, and so she looked at him and smiled and answered: "Nothing, as mama would say, to trouble an invalid with." "I've only just begun to understand you, Mr. Farron. To understand, I mean, what mama means when she says you are the strongest, wisest person-" He pretended to smile. "When did your mother say that?" "Oh, ages ago." She stopped, aware of a faint motion to withdraw on the part of the hand she held. "I suppose you want to go to her." "No. The sort of headache she has is better left alone, I think, though you might stop as you go up." "I will. When do you think I can see Pete?" "I'd wait a day or two; but you might telephone him at once, if you like, and say -or do you know what to say?" She laughed. "It used to frighten me when you made fun of me like that; but now-It must be simply delirious to be able to make people as happy as you 've just made us." He smiled at her word. "Other people's happiness is not exactly "I saw your friend Pete Wayne this delirious," he said. morning." "You saw-" Surprise, excitement, alarm flooded her face with crimson. "Oh, why did you see him?" "I saw him by appointment. He asked. me to tell you-only, I 'm afraid, other things put it out of my head-that he has accepted a job I offered him." “O Mr. Farron, what kind of job?" "Well, the kind of job that would enable two self-denying young people to marry, I think.” Not knowing how clearly all that she felt was written on her face Mathilde tried to put it all into words. "How wonderful! how kind! But my mother-" "I will arrange it with your mother." "Have you known all along? Oh, why did you do this wonderful thing?" "Because-perhaps you won't agree with me- -I have taken rather a fancy to this young man. And I had other reasons." Mathilde took her stepfather's hand as it lay upon the table. She was moving in the direction of the nearest telephone, but she said over her shoulder: "Oh, well, I think you did pretty well for yourself when you chose mama.” She left him sipping his black coffee; he took every drop of that. When he had finished he did not go back to his study, but to the drawingroom, where he sat down in a large chair by the fire. He lit a cigar. It was a quiet hour in the house, and he might have been supposed to be a man entirely at peace. Mr. Lanley, coming in about an hour later, certainly imagined he was rousing an invalid from a refreshing rest. He tried to retreat, but found Vincent's black eyes were on him. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said. "Just wanted to see Adelaide." "Adelaide has a headache." Life was taking so many wrong turnings that Mr. Lanley had grown apprehensive. He suddenly remembered how many headaches Adelaide had had just be fore he knew of her troubles with Sev erance. "A headache?" he said nervously. "Nothing serious." Vincent looked more closely at his father-in-law. "You yourself don't look just the thing, sir." Mr. Lanley sat down more limply than was his custom. "I'm getting to an age," he said, "when I can't stand scenes. We had something of a scene here yesterday afternoon. God bless my soul! though, I believe Adelaide told me not to mention it to you." "Adelaide is very considerate," replied her husband. His extreme susceptibility to sorrow made Mr. Lanley notice a tone which ordinarily would have escaped him, and he looked up so sharply that Farron was forced to add quickly: “But you have n't made a break. I know about what took place." The egotism of suffering, the distorted vision of a sleepless night, made Mr. Lanley blurt out suddenly: "I want to ask you, Vincent, do you think I could have done anything different?" Now, none of the accounts which Farron had received had made any mention of Mr. Lanley's part in the proceedings at all, and so he paused a moment, and in that pause Mr. Lanley went on: "It's a difficult position-before a boy's mother. There is n't anything against him, of course. One's reasons for not wanting the marriage do sound a little snobbish when one says them-right out. In fact, I suppose they are snobbish. Do you find it hard to get away from early prejudices, Vincent? I do. I think Adelaide is quite right; and yet the boy is a nice boy. What do you think of him?” "I have taken him into my office." Mr. Lanley was startled by a courage so far beyond his own. "But," he asked, "did you consult Adelaide?" Farron shook his head. "But, Vincent, was that quite loyal?" A change in Farron's expression made Mr. Lanley turn his head, and he saw that test. She had come to put her very life to the There was one hope, there was one way in which Vincent could rehabilitate himself, and that was by showing himself victor in the hardest of all struggles, personal struggle with her. That would be hard, because she would make it so, if she perished in the attempt. The crisis came in the first meeting of their eyes. If his glance had said: "My poor dear, you 're tired. Rest. All will be well," his cause would have been lost. But his glance said nothing, only studied her coolly, and she began to speak. That "Oh, Papa, Vincent does not consider such minor points as loyalty to me." Her voice and manner left Mr. Lanley in no doubt that if he stayed an instant he would witness a domestic quarrel. The idea shocked him unspeakably. these two reserved and dignified people should quarrel at all was bad enough, but that they should have reached a point where they were indifferent to the presence of a third person was terrible. He got himself out of the room without ceremony, but not before he saw Vincent rise and heard the first words of his sentence: "And what right have you to speak of loyalty?" Here, fortunately, Lanley shut the door behind him, for Vincent's next words would have shocked him still more: "A prostitute would have stuck better to a man when he was ill." But Adelaide was now in good fighting trim. She laughed out loud. "Really, Vincent," she said, "your language! You must make your complaint against me a little more definite." "Not much; and give you a chance to |