"No," she said quietly. "He mustn’t know. Look here, Vincent! I’ve done this one bad thing in my life. I never did anything bad before, and I never will again; but if it was known, I’d never be forgiven. I’d never get another chance--from any one; and I mean to have another chance. It’s never going to be known. I’m not going to be ruined and wasted, just for one--badness. It’s going to be wiped out, I tell you!" "It will never be wiped out. You’ll never forget, Angelica--you’ll never, never forget me. You can’t love again. You’ve lost heaven, my girl." She was still for a moment. "Maybe I have," she said. "Maybe I have lost heaven. But," she went on, "I’ll get what I can, anyway. I’m going to have my chance. Vincent!" Her voice was so low that he had to press against the screen to hear her; and her words came in an incredibly ferocious whisper, that turned his blood cold: "If ever you tell him, Vincent, I swear to Gawd I’ll kill you!" CHAPTER FIVE I Through the front basement window Mrs. Kennedy saw Angelica returning, a shockingly disheveled figure in the sweltering midday heat. She hurried to the door, with the baby in her arms. "Oh, Angie!" she cried. "You cruel, cruel, bad girl! Where have you been? I’ve been near crazy, left alone here all night and morning with the baby, and not a penny in the house. Of course I couldn’t do my work----” "Hush!" said Angelica, sternly. "Don’t bother me. I’m too tired. I had to walk all the way back. Make me some tea!" She took the child in her arms and sat down in the rocking-chair, holding it pressed against her breast and staring over its head, indifferent to its crying, and the feeble beating of its little hands. She had her tea and bread with it; then she lay down on her cot, always with the child in her arms, and fell asleep. Mrs. Kennedy looked in upon them, saw them both quiet, the little, downy head resting against Angelica’s shoulder, and she devoutly hoped that this period of rest might solace her daughter after whatever demoniacal adventure she had undergone that night. She picked up her pail and went out to work. When she came in again at five o’clock, they were both gone. II Polly was reading, stretched out on the sofa of her charming little room, near the window which gave her a fine view of the Hudson and a cool breeze. Her maid had gone out, and she was quite alone in her little flat, content and languid, rejoicing in her dignified solitude. Here she was living as she liked to live, with her music, her books, her very few and very casual friends, and long, long hours of delicate idleness. She enjoyed the blissful serenity of a convalescent, or a freed prisoner. After her two heart-breaking experiences of married life, after the anguish of her dear child’s death, she was happy now to be quite alone, to love no one, and to be hurt by no one. She wished to spend the rest of her life alone.