To Blanche he was interesting. Even in the depths to which she had fallen, or rather deliberately descended, there exists an unconfessed desire for the better things of the past, for the moral levels which have been derided and deserted, for the things which are bitter with the sourness of the grapes the fox could not attain to; and to talk with Harrison was a breath from the old world, monotonous, perhaps, but lovable, where she, too ... but she never thought of those things. What was the use? It made her sad, and she would undoubtedly drink more than usual, and get reckless, and buy wine with her salary and percentage money, and be in debt to the house for a month afterward. So she didn’t think much. It didn’t ever occur to her that her interest in Harrison was passing the danger line. It wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. * * * * * A month later, Coughlin announced that the Comique would have a grand closing one week from that night. “The money is about through in this town,” he said, in explanation. “We’ll move on to the gold mines.” Blanche discussed it that evening with Harrison in the restaurant The news disturbed him. “You’ll come, too?” she said. He didn’t know. “There’ll be nothing here,” she went on, “and it will be so lonely.” “I don’t mind the loneliness,” said Harrison. “But I’ll be lonely.” “Perhaps Coughlin wouldn’t want me, anyway. I haven’t done a stroke of work while I’ve been here.” “But he’ll want you if I say so. I’m the best girl he’s got,” said Blanche, modestly, “and if I say so it goes. And I do say so.” Harrison was silent. He had often thought of this. He had known, of course, that he could not live forever at the Comique. Many times he had decided that death were easier than a final parting from the dead. He had thought that he could never leave her, but now---- Well, the lust of life is strong. We do not know how far the fall is until we stand at the brink and look over. Besides there is no coming back. If we could only try it for a while and return again! “Harrison,” said Blanche, suddenly, “listen. I think I know what you are thinking, and I know I can not argue such a thing with you. No one could. You know best, and no one else can know anything about it. But I want to tell you one fact that perhaps you haven’t thought of. You want to stay here with her--always. But you can’t. I know it is horrible to talk of, but it is not always winter even in Alaska, and the summer is almost here.” The man winced. “Go to bed, Harrison,” she said; “I can not talk of such things. You know best.” He went away to the cabin. He knew that Blanche was right. It must be--but the anguish of it. How should he say the last farewell?