"It's late, Larry. You are tired." She got that far when she affrightedly remembered the bedroom upstairs and paused. She had arranged it for Larry--there must be an explanation of that. "Late be hanged!" Larry stretched his legs out and plunged his hands in his pockets. "I'm going to get at the bottom of this to-night. You understand?" "All right, Larry." Mary-Clare sank back in her chair--she had fallen on her adventurous way; she had no words with which to convey her burning thoughts. Already she had got so far from the man who had filled such a false position in her life that he seemed a stranger. To tell him that she did not love him, had never loved him, was all but impossible. Of course he could not be expected to comprehend. The situation became terrifying. "You've never been the same since the last baby came." Larry was speaking in an injured, harsh tone. "I've put up with a good deal, Mary-Clare; not many men would be so patient. The trouble with you, my girl, is this, you get your ideas from books. That mightn't matter if you had horse sense and knew when to slam the covers on the rot. But you try to live 'em and then the devil is to pay. Dad spoiled you. He let you run away with yourself. But the time's come----" The long speech in the face of Mary-Clare's wondering, amazed eyes, brought Larry to a panting pause. "What you got a husband for, anyway, that's what I am asking you?" Mary-Clare's hard-won philosophy of life stood her in poor stead now. She felt an insane desire to give way and laugh. It was a maddening thing to contemplate, but she seemed to see things so cruelly real and Larry seemed shouting to her from a distance that she could never retrace. For a moment he seemed to be physically out of sight--she only heard his words. "By God! Mary-Clare, what's up? Have you counted the cost of carrying on as you are doing? What am I up against?" "Yes, Larry, I've counted the cost to me and Noreen and you. I'm afraid this is what we are all up against." "Well, what's the sum total?" Larry leaned back more comfortably; he felt that Mary-Clare, once she began to talk, would say a good deal. She would talk like one of her books. He need not pay much heed and when she got out of breath he'd round her up. His interview with Maclin had not been all business; the gossip, interjected, was taking ugly and definite form now. Maclin had mentioned the man at the inn. Quite incidentally, of course, but repeatedly. "You see, Larry, I've got to tell you how it is, in my own way," Mary-Clare was speaking. "I know my way makes you angry, but please be patient, for if I tried any other way it would hurt more." "Fire away!" Larry nobly suppressed a yawn. Had Mary-Clare said simply, "I don't love you any more," Larry would have got up from the blow and been able to handle the matter, but she proceeded after a fashion that utterly confused him and, instead of clearing the situation, managed to create a most unlooked-for result.