“I have no highfalutin’ ideas about the sanctity of marriage, or any such nonsense,” Miss Storms went on in the same half musing tone, “although I realize that, in spite of what is perhaps some intellectual breadth, I have an old maid’s emotional idealism. But the fact remains, dear, that sex is greater than we, just as life and death are greater, and we can escape neither its ecstasy nor its agony. We mate to suffer as well as to joy, Lucy, and you are happier than I.” Here Miss Storms reverted abruptly to her practical mood. “You just hold on, dear,” she advised. “Men, even the greatest of them, never grow up. I think I have a plan that will do the trick. Let me gnaw over it tonight, and I’ll see you in a day or two. Everything’s going to be all right.” Miss Storms nodded reassuringly. Lucy hesitated a moment. Then she arose. “Won’t you stay for luncheon, dear?” “No. I must go.” “Well, you will hear from me soon. But on account of John’s attitude toward Arthur and Ellen, and toward me, he must never know--more than he already knows--about my having anything to do with it. Women are always deceiving men for their own good, you know, dear.” Miss Storms jested sourly. Lucy made no sign and Miss Storms proceeded in a business-like tone. “Now, Lucy, you’re strong--women have to be--and sensible. You can handle this situation, dear. You must. I’ll help. I believe my idea will work. If it fails we’ll try another.” “I don’t think it’s any use,” Lucy confessed hopelessly. “Oh, yes it is. Don’t lose heart.” From the apartment Lucy went to the park, and, seeking a secluded spot, seated herself on a bench and leaned her head against her hand. She remained thus for more than an hour. Tears sometimes flowed down her cheeks, but she made no sound. Finally she rose and turned her steps toward the office. XXVIII The torpor of summer was in the air, but it did not affect Jim’s industry. Coming into the office from a luncheon he had scarcely tasted, he removed his coat, and settled himself for a hard afternoon’s work. The windows were raised but not a breath came to stir the papers on his desk. The murmur of the street sounded as remote as the echo of the ocean in a shell. The door opened and Lucy came in. Jim glanced up, startled, but did not speak. “I want to talk to you, Jim,” Lucy said without preamble. Her face was set. “Sit down,” he replied, looking at her keenly. The pencil in his hand trembled. “I couldn’t say anything last night, Jim. I am in the greatest trouble of my life.” She picked up a paper weight and examined it as she spoke. “I know, Lucy,” he said, laying down his pencil. She shivered as though chilled by the warm summer atmosphere. Her forced calmness forsook her suddenly. “Oh, Jim!” she sobbed, and leaning forward on the desk, hid her face in her arms. He reached out his hand to take hers, then withdrew it, and, picking up the pencil again, began tapping the desk with it.