All the light and passion fled from her face at his tone. She looked up at him in terrified inquiry. Ross stood aside from the doorway, so that she could see the child lying asleep on the bed. She went in very softly, and stood looking down at the little creature. “You see,” she whispered, “I’ve given up—my soul—for Gayle.” He took her by the arm and led her out of the room, closing the door behind them. “Very well!” he said. “On her account, it’s better like this. I’ll take her. And you’ll have to forget her. Do you understand? There’s to be no repentance, and so on. Make up your mind now.” “No,” she said, faintly. “I can’t. I won’t! I’ll just do what you tell me. _You’ve_ got to decide.” “What!” he cried, appalled. “You’d try to make me?” The child gave a little chuckle in her sleep. He thought what the child’s life would be, with Amy, if Amy were denied her Gayle. He thought of Ives. He had taken Ives’s name, and with it the burden that Ives could no longer carry. “All right!” he said. “It’s finished. I only hope to Heaven that Mr. Solway can end his days without knowing. As for Dexter—he’ll have to take his chance—like the rest of us. Good-by, Amy!” She caught one of his hands in both of hers, and pressed it against her wet cheek. “Can you ever, ever forgive me, Jimmy?” she asked, with a sob. “I dare say!” said Ross, grimly. XXI “Left hand, please!” Obediently, Mrs. Barron took her left hand out of the bowl of warm water, and laid it on the towel, carefully, as if it might melt. And the manicurist bent over it with her nice air of earnest attention. All this was agreeable to Mrs. Barron. She was rather proud of her hands; she was altogether comfortable and tranquil; she had a pleasant, restful day before her. In the afternoon she and her daughter were going to look at fur coats, which was really better than the actual buying; and, in the evening, they were all going to a play. The sun was shining, too, and the formal sitting room of her hotel suite was cheerful and warm, and filled with the perfume of the roses that stood all about. “It’s good to be home again,” she remarked. “At my time of life traveling is not—” The telephone bell rang. “Answer that, my dear. It’s dangerous to touch a telephone with damp hands—Oh! A gentleman to see Miss Barron? What a strange time to call—ten o’clock in the morning! Ask his name, my dear. He was on the Farragut with us? But how very strange! Why doesn’t he give his name? But ask him to come up.” She dried her hands and arose, majestic even in her frivolous negligee. “Very strange!” she murmured. There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” she said. The door opened—and it was Mr. Ross! She took a step forward, with a welcoming smile; then she stopped short. “Mr. Ross!” she cried. “But—Mr. Ross!”