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approve it, but I’m willing to overlook it. You aren’t to blame, I fancy. Your temperament, your way of life. Forget him, my dear, and give me your word before I go———”

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said brokenly. “I can't.”

For a long moment Jaynes looked at her. Then, with great dignity, he turned on his heel.

“Where are you going?” Shelah cried.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I must think this thing out.”

“But you’re dining here———”

“I don’t know,” the man repeated. “I couldn’t talk to your friends just now. I want to be alone for a few minutes. I may return later.” He seemed dazed, uncertain of himself.

Shelah was at his side, her hand on his sleeve. “Alan, I’m so sorry—so unhappy.”

He turned, and took her in his arms, “By heaven—you loved me on the ship. I won’t give you up. I can’t.” His glance fell on the orchids, fastened to the shoulder-strap of her gown by a small diamond pin. “No one shall take you from me,” he cried and, releasing her, went quickly out.

Shelah Fane walked slowly to a chair, and dropped into it. Pain and a desperate unhappiness were in her face, and she was not acting now. For a few moments she sat there, then gradually came back to her surroundings. She glanced at her watch—a quarter of eight. Quickly she rose and went to the French windows at the rear.

The moon was still in hiding, and the broad lawn that lay between the house and the pounding surf was