The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 27, 1904, Page 5

P — Vera, suppose you go and ask mamma to let us have some of that strawberry jam at tea.” “Yes, let's make her go,” chimed in gleefully. “You may do anything you like,” de- clared Vera, “but you can't make me go—not if you kill me, you can’t!” The two elder girls giggled jgmerrily at her panic. Poor Suzette was rather in despair about these children—not because they were unhappy. Their mother’s hu- mors, if alarming, were also the cause of much excitement. Their father’s plight, if sorrowful, was by no means wanting in the comic aspect. The sus- pense in which they waited to see how long La Harriet would stand it had a distinct spice of pleasure in it. But the pity of it all! Suzette’s training, not less than her fidelity to Lady Har- inclined her to lay far the heavier » Tom Courtland. But she did on that Lady Harriet must ving—and the more she list- ened to the children the more that idea And between them, the mother the father were responsible for such a childhood as this. The children -re not bad girls, she thought, but they were in danger of being coarsened d demoralized: they were learning laugh when they had better have It Suzette's way to be easil shocked, and she was i shocked at this. k ust starting for their aft- noon walk when John Fenshaw ar- ed and found them all in the hall. was an friend—Vera's godfathe 1d was warmly welcomed. John ry cheery to-day: he joked with ldren and paid Suzette Bligh a ent Then Vera wanted to he had called: e papa’s not at home, you Sophy Never mind that, puss. I've come vour ma.” fou've come to see mamma'" d icy. re exchanged between the us excited glances; ad- ed eyes turned to John re was the man who g to enter the lion’s den! we start, dean suggested ex- take: lirect and frien , missie,” said in the corner if you happen to be there—" Luc, f vy start, Lucy at have you come to see mamma asked Vera, shrilly John found it difficult to correct this mistake of hers, “I'm at the end of my patience,” she said solemnly. “I'm sure anybody would be. You know what's happen- ing as well as I do, and I intend to put an end to it. “Oh, don’t say th=t! I—well, I'm here just to prevent you from saying that.” “To prevent me? You do know what'’s happening. Do you know he’s stay- ing awav from home again? What do the servants think? What must the children begin to think? Am I to be exposed to that?” She looked very handsome and spirit- ed, with just the right amount of color in her cheeks and an animated sparkle in her eyes. “Why, I could name the woman!” she exclaimed. *“And so could you, I dares: “Don’'t make too much of it,” he urged. ““We're not children. He does not really care about the woman. It's only because he's unhappy.” “And whose fault is it he's unhap- py 2" And because of that he's being foolish—wasting all his money, too, I'm afraid.” “Oh, I've got my settlement. I shall be all right in case of proceednigs.” “Now, pray, don't think of proceed- ings, Lady Harriet.” “Not think of them! I've made up my mind to them. I wanted to ask you how to set about it. “But jt would ruin h career; it would destroy his public position.” “I can’t help that. He should have thought of that for himself.” “And then think of the girls!” “Anything would be better than go- ing on like this—yes, better for them, too!” John saw that he must face an ex- planation of his embassy. He got up and stood on the hearthrug. “I'm here as the friend of you both,” he began. color and the sparkle both grew said Lady Harriet. to this. Tom’s friends—I A one or two more—have been speak- isly to him. We've got him ready to drop—to drop what ’ properly object to—and make another effort to find a—a modus vivendi. “I'm glad he's got so much decent feeling! Only it comes rather late. He wants me to forgive him, does he?"” “I don’t think we can put it quite 1ply as that.” John risked a timid ““There must be a give-and-take, Harriet—a give-and-take, you She was relapsing into that dangerous stillness of hers. She was very quiet, but her eyes shone very bright. Tom Courtland would have ANNOUNCEMENT. For the purpose of encouraging California and Western writers, by offering a consideration for short stories equal to that paid by the best magazines, and for the purpose of bringing young and unknown writers to the front. the Sunday Call announces a weekly fiction con- test in which a cash prize of $50 will be paid each week for the best story submitted. There is no section of America more fertile in ma- terial for fiction or more prolific in pens gifted to give spirit to the material at hand than is California and the West. Therefore the Sun- day Call offers $50 for the best story submitted each week by a West- ern writer. Stories of Western life and Western characters will, as a rule, be given the preference. but all strong it stories, and especially strong stories by new writers, will receive careful consideration. Each story will be judged strictly upon its literary merit. Type- written copy is the easiest to read and will receive the first consider- ation from the editor, but do not hesitate to send a story in hand- writing if you cannot afford to have it typewritten. Fifty dollars in cash for a story of not less than 2500 words and not more than 2500 words is approximately $17 per thousand words, or 1.7 cents per word. The highest price paid by the leading magazines for the work of any but the very best writers is rarely more than two cents 2 word, more often one cent and a half, and generally one cent. With the majority of magazines the writer, after his story is ac- cepted, is compelled to wait until the publication of his story before he is paid, a period of seldom less-than six months. and usually from nine months to a year. The storie§ accepted in this contest will be paid for immediately upon publication, and will be published on the first Sunday following the judeing of the week’s manuscripts. gnmonooomouo er,” answered John, facetiously uking curiosity. I expect you've come about papa,” served Vera, with disconcerting ness and an obvious contempt for joke. going to start, Suzette. yvhow,” de- “Come along, , do!" “Well, if there’s a great row, Gar- rett’ll hear some of it and tell us,” said S nsoling herself and her sis- as they reluctantly walked away from the center of interest. John Fanshaw's happiness was with him still—the happiness which Cayle- sham’s check had brought. It was not banked yef, but it would be to-morrow; and. in the last two days John had taken steps to reassure everybody, to tell everybody that they would be paid without question or difficulty, to scatter the cloud of gossip and suspi- cion which had gathered round his credit in the city. It was now quite understood that John's firm had weath- ered any trouble which nad threat- ened it, and could be trusted and fully relied on again. Hence John’s happy mind, and, a result of the happy mind, a sanguine and eager wish to effect some good, to bring about some sort of reconciliation and a modus vivendi, in the Courtland family. His hopes were not visionary or unreasonable; he did not expect to establish romantic bliss there; a modue vivendi ccmmended itself to him as the best way of ex- pressing what he was going to suggest to Lady Harriet. In this flush of happy and benevolent feeling he was reaily glad that he had consented to under- take the embassy. Lady Harriet liked John Fanshaw. She called him John and, though he did not quite venture to reciprocate the familiarity, he felt that it gave him a position in dealing with her. Also he thought her a very handsome woman; and, since she was aware of this, there s another desirable element in their acquaintance. And he thought that he knew how to manage women—he was sure he would not have made such a bad job of it as poor Tom had. So he went in wjthout any fear, and found ¥ ification in the cordiality of his velcome. Indeed the welcome was too . inasmuch as it was based on ronecus notion. “You're the very man of all men I wanted+4o see! 1 was thinking of send- r you. Come and sit down, John, I'll tell you all about it.” t I know all about it,”” he pro- , “and 1 want to have a talk to Nobody can know but me; and I be- ieve you're the best friend I have. I \ t to tell you everything, and take your ads bow I'm to act” Evidently she did not suppose that he was in any sense an embassador from her husband. He was to be her friend. known the signs, so would the girls. “We've got him to say what I've told you; but there must be something from your side.” “What am I to do, John?” she asked with deceptive meekness. “Well, I think you might—well—er— express some regret that—that things haven't been more harmonious at home. You might hold out an olive branch, you know."” “Express regret?” “Don’t stand on a point of pride now. Haven’'t yon sometimes been—well, a little exacting—a little quick-tem: pered?” “Oh, you're in that old story, are you? Quick-tempered! Suppose I am! Haven’t I enough to make me quick- tempered ?"” “Yes, now you have. But what about the beginning?” “Do you mean it was my fault in the beginning 7" “Don’t you think so yourself? Partly, at all events?” Lady Harriet took up a tortoise shell paper knife and played with it. Her eyes were set hard on John, who did not like the expression in them. He became less glad that he had under- taken the embassy. “May a man desert and deceive his wife because she's a little quick-tem- pered?” g no, of course not; that's ab- surd.” “It's what you're saying, isn't it?” “We must look at it as men and women of the world.” “I look at it as a wife and a mother. Do you mean to say it was my fault in the beginning?" John was losing patience; he saw that some plain speaking would be nec- essary, but his want of patience made it hard for him to do the plain speak- ing wisely. “Well, yes, I do,” he said. “In the beginning, you know. Tom’s a good- natured fellow, and he was very fond of you. But you—well, you didn't make his home pleasant to him; and if a man's home isn't pleasant, you know what's likely to happen.” “And you're the friend I meant to send for!” “I am your friend—that’s why I ven- ture to speak to you freely. There's no hope unless you both realize where you've been wrong. Tom acknowl- edges his fault and is ready to change his ways. But you must acknowledge yourz and change, too. “What Is my fault?” John took a turn up and down the room. “I must let her have it,” he decided, as he came back to the hearthrug. “You make everybody afraid of you with your lamentable fits of temper,” he told her. “Tom's afraid of you, and afraid of what you might drive him into. The children are afraid cf you. t 7 A THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. Iverybody’s afraid of you. You make the house impossible to live in. You're even violent sometimes, I'm afraid, Lady Harriet.” If breaking a paper-knife in. two be violence, she was violent then. She threw the pieces down on the table angrily. “How dare ycu,come to me and talk like this? I've done nothing; I've noth- ing to blame myself for. What I've had to put up with woéuld have spoiled anybody’'s temper! Express regret? I shall do nothing of the kind. If that’s what you cbome to ask, you can take your answer and go.” She was working herself up to the full tide of her rage. John's undertak- ing was quite hopeless now, but he would not recognize it yet; he deter- mined to “let her have it” a little more still. “Look at that!” he said, pointing to the broken paper-knife. “Just try to think what that—that sort of thing— means! What man can be expected to stand that? The state of things which h. arisen is your fault. You've made o effort to govern your temper. You're reaping the fruit of what you've sown. If poor Tom had shown more firmness it might have been better.” ‘@®ou'd have shown more firmness, I suppose?” “Yes, I should! and I believe it would have done some gocd: You may suppose it gives me gréat pain to speak like this, but really it's the only way. UnRss you realize how greatly you've been to blame, unless you determine to conquer this deplorable feeling, there’s no hope of doing any good.” She sat quiet for a mbment or two longer with shining eyes, while John, now confident and very masculine, developed the subject of the real truth about her. Then she broke out: “You fool!” she said. “You silly fool! You come to me with this nonsense! You tell me you'd have shown more firmn You tell me it's my fault Tom's gone off after this creature} Much you know about it all! Wonder= fully wise you are! Leave other men's wives alone, and go back and look after your own, John.” “There’'s nothing that I'm aware of wrong in my house, Lady Harriet. We needn’t bring that into the question.” “Oh, we needn’t, needn’'t we? And there never was anything wrong, I sup- pose? I'm such a bad wife, am I? Oth- er men have bad wives too.” “Do you attach any particular mean- ing to that?"” he asked coldly, but rath- er uneasily. “Do I attach—? Oh, what an idiot you $50 ¢ L self now, and that’s your doing too!" She flung herself into her chair and began to sob tempestuously. John stared past her to the wall. “It's just what Tom’s always done,” she moaned through her sobs—"making me lose my temper, and say something, and then—" Her words became inar- ticulate. . Presently her sobs ceased; her face grew hard and set again. ‘Well, are you going to sit there all day?” she asked. “Is it so pleasant that you want to stay? Do you still think you can teach me the error of my ways?" From the first moment John Fan- shaw had not doubted the truth of what she said. Things forced out by passion in that way were true. Her stormy remorse was added proof—a remorse which did not even attempt retraction or evasion. And his mem- ory got to work. He knew now why Christine had been so reluctant to go to Caylesham. There were things back in the past, too, which now became in- telligible—how that acquaintance had grown and grown, how constant the companionship had been, one or two little things which had seemed odd, and then how there had been a sudden end, and they had come to see very little of Caylesham, how neither of them had seen him for a long while, tili John had sent Christine to borrow £15,000. “For God's sake, go!” she cried. He rose to his feet slowly and her fascinated eyes watched his face. His eyes were dull, and his face Seemed e gone gray. He asked her one B How long ago?” “Oh, all over years ago,” she an- swered, with an impatient drumming her fingers on the arms of her chatr. He nodded his hedd in a thoughtful way. * “‘Good-by, Lady Harriet,” he said. “Good-by, John.” Suddenly she sprang up. “Stop! What are you go- ing to say to Christine?"” He looked bewildered still. “I don't ‘know. Oh, really I don’t know! My God, I never had any ideg of this, and I don’'t know! I can'(Aczn't realize it all, you know—And Cayles- ham too!" “Are you going to tell her I told you?" “1 don’t know what I'm guing to do, Lady Harriet—I don’t know."” “Ah!" With a cry of exasperation she Each Week for the Best——— HORT $5 STORY 0$ SUNDAY CALL \ are! You to come and lecture me as if I was a child! I may be anything you like, but I've never been what your wife was, John Fanshaw.” He turned on her quickly. “What do you mean by that?” “That’s my affair.” “No, it isn’t. You've dared to hint—" “Oh, I hint nothing I don’t know.” “You shall give me an explanation of those words. I insist upon that.” “You'd better not,” she laughed ma- liciously. John was moved beyond self-eontrol. He caught her by the wrist. She rose and stood facing him, het breath com- ing quick. She was in a fury that robbed her of all judgment and all mercy; but she had no fear of him. “You shall withdraw those words or explain them!” “Ask Christine to explain them,” she sneered. ““What a fool you are! Here's a man to give lectures on the man- agement of wives, when his own wife—" She broke off laughing again. “You shall tell me what you meai “Dear me, you can't guess? You've turned very dull, John. Never mind! Don't make too much of it! Perhaps you were quick-tempered? Perhaps you didn’t make her home pleasant? And if a woman's home isn't pleasant—well, you know what's likely to happen, don’t you?” Perspiration was on John Fanshaw’s brow. He pressed her wrist hard. “You she-devil!” he said. “Tell me what you mean, I say!” “Oh, ask Christine! And if she won't tell you, I advise you to apply to Frank Caylesham, John.” ‘Is that true?” on’t break my wrist.” “Caylesham He held her wrist a moment longer, then dropped it, and looked aimlessly round the rocm. She rubbed her wrist and glared at him with sullen eyes, her fury dying down into a malicious rancor. “There, that's what you get from vour meddling and your preaching!” she said. “I mnever meant to give Christine away, I never wanted to. It's your doing; vou made me angry, and I hit cut at you where I could. I wish to God you had never come here, John! Christine’s one ,of the few women who are friendly to me, and now I've— But you've yourself to thank for it.” He sank slowly into a chair; she heard him mutter “Caylesham!” again. “If yon know I've a quick temper, why do you exasperate me? You ex- asperate me, and then I do a thing like that! Oh, I'm not thinking of you; I'm thipking of poor Christine. I hate my- turned away and sat down in her chair again. “Good-by,” he muttered, and slouched awkwardly out of the room. She sat on where she was, very still, frowning, her hand holding her chin, only her restless eyes roving about the room. She was like some handsome, fierce, caged beast. There she sat for close on an hour, thinking of what she was and of what she had done—of how he had shown her the picture of herself, and of how, from malice and in her wrath, she had betrayed Christine. Once only in all this time her |lips moved; they moved to mutter: “What a cursed woman I am!” CHAPTER XIL Images and Their Work. By this time young Walter Blake had not only clearly determined what he wanted and meant to do; he had also convinced himself of his wisdom and courage in wanting and meaning to do it. He was not blind, he de- clared, to the disagreeable and dis- tressing incidents. There were painful features. There would be a scandal, and there would be an awkward and uncomfortable period—a provisional pe- riod before life settled down on its new and true lines. That was inev- itable, since this case—the case of him- self and Sibylla—was exceptional, whereas laws and customs were made for the ordinary cases. He did not condemn the laws and customs whole- sale, but he was capable of seeing when a case was exceptional, and he had the wisdom and the courage to act on what he perceived. He even admitted that very few cases were really excep- tional, and took the more credit for perceiving that this one really was. He did not take Grantley into account at all, neither what he was nor what he might do. Grantley seemed to him negligible. He confined his considera- tion to Sibylla and himself—and the exceptional nature of the case was ob- vious. He was a prey to his ready emotions and to his facile exaltation. Desires masqueraded as reasons, and untempered impulses wore the decent cloak of a high resolve. If he couid have put the case like that to himself, it might not have seemed so plainly exceptional. groan, . -either, really, you know. = §50——$50 He was never more convinced of his wisdom and courage than when he lis- tened to Caylesham’s conversation They were race course ard club aec- quaintances, and had lunched together at Caylesham’s flat on the Sunday on which John Fanshaw went to Lady Harriet's house in order to show her the errdr of her ways. Blake glowed with virtie as he listened to his friend’s earthy views and measured his friend's degraded standards against his own. “The ome duty,” said Caylesham, ham, somewhat circumscribing the do- main of morality, as his habit was, “is to avoid a row. Don't “get the woman into a scrape.” From gossip- ing about Tom Courtland they had drifted into discussing the converse case, “That really sums it all up, you know.” It was a chilly day, and he warmed himself luxuriously before the fire. “I don't set myself up as a pat- tern to the youth, but I've never done that anyhow.” Virtuous Blake would have liked to rehearse to him all the evil things he had done—the meanness, the hypoc- risy, the degradation he had caused and shared, but it is not possible to speak quite so plainly to one’s friends. “Yes, that's the gospel,” he said sar- castically. “Avoid a row. Nothing else matters, does it?” “Nothing else matters in the end,” I mean,” smiled Caylesham, good- naturedly conscious of the sarcasm and rather amused at it. “As long as there’'s no row things settle down again, you see. But if there's a row, see where you're left! Look what you've got on yourf hands, by Jove! And the women don't want a row They may talk as if they did—in fact, they're rather fond of talking as if they did; and they may think they do sometimes. But when it comes to the point they don’t. And, what's more, they don't easily forgive a man who gets them into a row. It means too much to them, too much by a deal, Blake.” “And what does it mean when there’s no row?"” of course, in a certain u have me,” Caylsham admit- ted with a candid smile. “If you like to take the moral line you have me, of course. I was speaking of the world as we know it, and I don’t suppose it's ever been particularly different. Not in my time anyhow, I can an- swer for that.” “You're wrong, Caylesham, wrong all through. If the thing has come and laughed. “That's not moral ad- vice or I wouldn't set up to give it. But it's a prudential consideration.” “And if you are sure?” Sure for both, I mean, you know.” “¥Yes, sure for both.” ‘“Well, then you're in such a bad way that yow'd better pack up and go to the Himalayas or somewhere like that without an hour’s delay, because nothing else’ll save you, you know.” Blake laughed rather contemptu- ously. ‘““After all, there have been cases—" ‘“Perhaps—but I don’t like such long odds ‘“Well, we've had your gospel. Now let's hear how it's worked im your own case. Are you satisfled with that, Caylesham ?"” He spoke with a sneer that did not escape Caylesham’s notice.. It drew another smile from him. “That's a home question—I didn't question you as straight as that. Well, I'll tell you. I won’t pretend to feel what I don’t feel; TI'll tell you as truly as I can.” He paused a mo- ment. “I've had lots of fun,” he went on. “I've always had plenty of money; I've never had any work to do, and I took my fun-£lots of it. I didn’t expect to get it for nothing, and I haven’t got it for nothing. Sometimes I got it cheap, and some- times, one way and another, it mount- ed to a very stiff figure. But I didn’t shirk settling day; and if there are any more settling days I won't shirk them if I can help it. I don’t think I've got anything to complain about.” He put his cigar back Into his mouth. “Nc¢, I don’t think I hav®,” He ended, twisting the cigar between his teeth What a contempt for him young Blake had! Was ever man so igno- rant of his true self? Was ever man &0 sunk in degragdation and so utterly unconscious of it? Caylesham could look back on a life spent as his had been—could look back from the middle-age to ‘which he had now come, and find nothing much amiss with it! Blake surveyed his groveling form from high pedestals of courage and of wisdom—absolutely of virtue pure and undefiled. othing very ideal about that!" “‘Good Lord., no! You wanted the truth, didn't you?"” “Well, I suppose I thought like that once—I was contented with that once.” ‘You certainly used to give the im- pression of bearing up under it" smiled Caylesham. ‘But things are changed now, are they?” “Yes, thank God! Imagine on like that all your life!™ Caylesham threw himself into a chair with a hearty laugh. » “Now we have gone as far as we can-with discretion,” he declared. going 000000000060000000000000000088 RULES. 1 No story will be considered that is less than 2500 nor more than 3500 words in length. The length of the story must be marked in plain figures. 1 In the selection of stories names will not count. The unknown writer will have the same standing as the popular author. As one of the obiects of the Sunday Call is to develop a new corps of Western writers no stories under noms de plume will be considered. If a story earns publication it will be 1w Stories not accepted will be returned at once. will be published one each week. well worth the writer’s name. Those selected This fiction contest will be continued indefinitely. vi An author may submit as many manuscripts as he desires, but no one writer will be permitted to win more than three prizes during the contest. Vi No' manuscripts will be returned Always inclose return postage. unless accompanied by return postage. - Vil Write on one side of paper only; put name and address legibly on last page, and address to the SUNDAY EDITOR OF THE CALL. SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. to such a point the only honest thing is to see it through, to face it, to undo the mistake, to put things where they ought to have been from the begin- ning.” “Capital! to do it “There's only one way of doing it.” Caylesham’s smile broadened; he pulled his long mustache delicately as he said: “Bolt?"” Blake nodded sharply. “Gh, my dear boy!" He laughed in a gentle, comfortable way and drew his coat right up into the small of his back. “Oh, my dear boy!” he murmured again. Nothing could have made Walter Blake feel more virtuous and more courageous. “The only honest and honorable thing,” he insisted—"the only self-re- specting thing for both.” “You convert the world to that and I'll think about it.” “What do I care about the world? It's enough for me to know what I think and feel about it. And I've no shadow of doubt.” His face flushed a little and he spoke rather heatedly. “I wouldn't interfere with your con- victions for the world and, as I'm a bachelor, I don’t mind them.” He was looking at Blake rather keenly now, wondering what made the young man take the subject so much to heart. “But if I were you I'd keep them in the theoretical stage, I think.” He laughed again and turned to light a cigar. Blake was smoking, too, one cigarette after another, quickly and nervously. Caylesham looked down on him with a good hu- mored smile. He liked young Blake in a half contemptuous fashipn and would have _been sorry to see him make a fool of himself out and out. “I'm not going to ask you any ques- tions,” he said, “though I may have _an idea about you in my head. But I'm pretty near twenty years older than you, I fancy, and I've knocked about a good bit and I'll tell you one or two plain truths. When you talk like that you assume that these things last. Well, in nine cases out of ten they don’t. I don't say that’s nice or amiable or elevated or anything else. 1 didn’t make human nature and T don't particularly admire it But there it is—in nine cases out of ten, you know. And if you think you know a case that's the tenth - This was exactly what Blake was sure he did know. “Yes, what then?” he asked de- fiantly. “Well,’ 'answered Caylesham slow- ly, “you be jully sure first before you act on that impression. You be jolly well sure first—that’s all.” Ie paused And how are you going S \D =7 “What do you mean by that?" asked Blake rather angrily. “Well, I'm not an idiot, am I, as well as a moral deformity 2" “I don’t know what you're talking about.” “Yes, but I know what you've been I know it all I don’t talking about, Blake. except one thing—and that proposge to ask.” . Blake rose with a sulky air and tossed away the end of his cigarette. nd what's that?” “The lady’s name, my boy,” said Caylesham, placidly. This talk - was fuel to Blake's flame. It showed him the alterna- tive—the only alternative. (He for- got that suggestion about the Hima- layas, which did not, perhaps, de- serve to be forgotten.) And the al- ternative was hideous to him now— hideous in its loss of all nobility, of all the ideal, in its cynically open- eyed accevtance of what was low and base. He would have come to that but for Sibylla. But for him, even Sibylla—Sibylla mated to Grantley— might have come to it also. It was from such a fate as this that they must rescue one another. One wise decision, one courageous stroke, and the thing was done. Very emo- tional, very exalted, he contrasted with the life Caylesham had led the life he and Sibylla were to lead. Could any man hesitate? With a new im- petus and with louder self-applause he turned to his task of persuading Si- bylla to the decisive step. Part of the work was accomplished. Sibylla had cast Grantley out of her heart; she disclaimed and denied both her love and her obligation to him. The harder part remained: that had been half done in her vigil by the baby’s cot. But it was ever in danger of being undone again. A ecry from the boy’'s lips, the trustful clinging of his arms from day to day, fought against Blake. Only in those gusts of un- natural feeling, those snasms of re- pugnance born of her misery, was she in heart away from the child. On these Blake could nét rely, nor did he seek to, since to speak of them brought her to instant remorse; but left to be brooded over In silence they might help him yet. He trusted his old weapons more—his need of her love and her need to give it. Caylesham’s life gave him a new instance and added strength to his argument. He told her of the man, though not the man’'s name, sketching the life and the state of mind it brought a man to. “That was my life till you came,” he said. “That was what was waiting for me. Am I to go back to that?” He could attack her on another side, too. To be continued next Sunday.