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that. You call him Jimmy in your thoughts—and you love him, Pat.”

“I don’t love him,” asserted Patricia in a low, level voice. “I once imagined I did. I like him immensely, of course; but women such as I never love anyone really, We can’t. There is something missing in us.”

She turned to smile at Grace ruefully.

“Heaven alone knows why we are born,” she continued. “It seems to me that we exist solely to make trouble for others.”

The thought made her glance in the direction of the Langham home across the gully. She frowned as she saw Mrs. Langham staking chrysanthemums and keeping a watchful eye on the Harley bungalow.

“Pat, dear, there is ne necessity to pretend with me,” replied Grace very, very gently. “I’m not blaming you for loving Jimmy; and I am not blaming Jimmy for loving you. Love is a gypsy, you know.”

She turned her face to the sun and sighed.

“Of course, I’m jealous, Pat. I am just a woman. I am not strong enough, or shallow enough, not to have regrets for a love that is dead. And I find it hard to smile in this hour of unexpected victory. That’s what you call it in your heart, isn’t it? Unexpected victory. You know that you could have held him but for this. Now, I hold him faster than ever. Now, his sense of duty, his sense of fairness, his remorse, will keep him at my side. He will be eager to atone. He will subject his desires, his whole life, to my wishes—and he will never be convinced that I don’t want him to do that. I don’t, Pat. I don’t!”

The frail white hands clutched the counterpane. Her body shook with the vehemence of her final words.

Patricia hurried to her side and took the trembling hands in hers.

“Hush, dear!” she begged. “You must not speak like this. You don’t know what you are saying. Mr.