"Oh yes, I could. I sin myself--often!" cried Betty, with a swift remembrance of all those little things done or left undone which made the failure of her home life. "A girl living at home, with a father and a mother to look after her, has no temptation to any big thing, but it's just as bad, if she is idle and selfish and ungrateful, and I am all three together many times over. I'd be too proud to say that to you if I saw your face and knew your name; but, as I said before, we are only shadows in a dream to-night. It doesn't matter what we say. Tell me your trouble, and let me try to understand. It isn't because I am curious--it isn't really! Do you believe that?" "Yes," he said instantly, "I do! Poor child, you want to help; but I am past that. I have ruined my own life and the life of the man who has been my best friend. I have had my chance--a better chance than is given to most men--and I have made an utter failure of it. If I--went on, it would mean starting again from the very beginning, with the stigma of failure to hinder me at every turn--a hopeless fight." "But,"--Betty's voice faltered nervously--"isn't it cowardly to run away just when the fight is hardest? A soldier would be called a traitor if he did that. And what would come afterwards? Do you believe that you have a right to take your own life?" "You mean from a religious point of view. I'm afraid that's out of my line. I have lost what little faith I had in these last few years. You believe in it all, of course--it's natural for a girl--but to me the idea of a personal God is as unreal as a fairy tale. It does not touch my position." "But just suppose for a moment that it _were_ true. Suppose He does exist, and has been longing to help you all this time--what then?" cried Betty earnestly, and her companion gave a short, derisive laugh.