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her. That is the god in you, the driving force of your man’s nature. I am, as you have so often told me, such a little bit of a woman. I am no fitting mate for a man fashioned like an epic hero. I understand—fully. I captured you before you had grown to a knowledge of yourself, and I have been foolish to think that I could hold you captive indefinitely with—with Joan. This thing had to be. But I want you to remember this, also, Jimmy—I want you as you want Pat. I have always wanted you that way—I will aways want you that way. Oh, Jimmy—I’ll always want you any way! Always, Jimmy, no matter what happens! Always!”

The last words had been a tremulous whisper, and he could not have replied then, for his throat had been full.

The silence which followed had been long and oppressive, and her hand had moved upon his hair in a continuous caress. Then she had risen swiftly and had left the room, turning in the doorway to say, in matter-of-fact tones,

“You had better eat your breakfast before it is cold, Jimmy. Whatever else you do, my dear, don’t starve yourself.”

He had heard the door close, and had felt an urge to spring from the bed and beg Grace’s forgiveness on his knees; to tell her that he had never ceased to love her; that his passion for Pat was but a transient blindness. Instead of obeying the urge, he had merely moved his head a little, because the pillow beneath his face had become uncomfortably damp, and had sniffed like a chastised schoolboy. The feeling of injustice had completely evaporated and he had seen himself as an abject, traitorous hound, unworthy even of pity.

It had been afternoon when he had risen, and he had left the house without thought of the breakfast tray, nor, indeed, of food in any form. He had made his way in self-abasement to the beach by an un