He was recalled from his scrutiny of the terrible figure before him by the sound of her voice, this time dropping into a monologue which held a half-musing quality. Hilmer was puzzling her a bit. She could not quite understand why a man accustomed to hew his way without restraint should be possessing his soul in such patience before Helen Starratt's provocative advances and discreet retreats. Either she was unable or unwilling to fathom the fascination which a subtle game sometimes held for a man schooled only in elemental approaches toward his goal. Was he enthralled or confused or merely curious? And how long would he continue to give his sufferance scope? How long would he pretend to play the moth to Helen Starratt's fitful flamings? Mrs. Hilmer, raising the question, answered it tentatively by a statement that held a curious mixture of hope and fear. "Hilmer's going south himself next week... On business, he _says_." She laughed harshly. "I wonder if they both think me quite a fool! ... If he succeeds this time she's done for!" Fred Starratt stirred in his seat. "Don't deceive yourself," he found himself saying, coldly; "whatever else my wife is, she's no fool... Remember, she wrote me a letter every week. She looks over her cards before she plays them...A few months more or less don't--" He broke off, suddenly amazed at his cruelty. Mrs. Hilmer's expression changed from arrested exultation to fretful appeal. "I have only six months to live," she wailed. "If I could walk just for a day...an hour...five minutes!" She covered her face in her hands. "What do you expect _me_ to do?" he asked, helplessly, with a certain air of resignation. She took her fingers from her eyes. A crafty smile illumined her features. "How should I know? ...What do men do in such cases?...She will be gone two weeks. I pray God she may never enter this house again. But that is in your hands." He felt suddenly cold all over, as if she had delivered an enemy into his keeping. She still loved Axel Hilmer...loved him to the point of hatred. What she wished for was his head upon a charger. With other backgrounds and other circumstances crowding her to fury she would have danced for her boon like the daughter of Herodias. As it was, she sat like some pagan goddess, full of sinister silences, impotent, yet unconquered. And again Storch's prophetic words swept him: "Like a field broken to the plow!" There was a terrible beauty in the phrase. Was sorrow the only plowshare that turned the quiescent soul to bountiful harvest? Was it better to reap a whirlwind than to see a shallow yield of unbroken content wither to its sterile end? * * * * * He found Ginger's lodgings that night, in a questionable quarter of the town, but she did not respond to his knock upon the door. "Why don't you try the streets, then?" Mrs. Hilmer's sneer recurred with all its covert bitterness.