She got up and stood by the window. She was doing him an injustice. He had never kissed Beatrice as he had just kissed her. But women seem never to understand that it is an utter impossibility for a man to caress different women in the same way. Probably our Father Adam and Mother Eve are the only couple the Earth has seen who have not had words on this subject. If Yetta had spoken out what was in her mind, Walter also would have taken up the age-old argument--in vain. But Yetta did not speak. She was fighting with herself--striving to regain her self-control. She had always believed that jealousy was contemptible. But he had kissed Mrs. Karner just as-- "Still thinking of Beatrice?" he asked quietly. "Trying not to, Walter. Oh, Beloved, you must be patient with me. It is all so new--so dizzyingly new. I've got to trust you, Walter. I've got to believe every word you say. I know I mustn't have doubts. I've got to believe every word you say"--she repeated it as if giving herself a lesson--"and I do, Walter. I mustn't ever think when you kiss me that perhaps you'd rather kiss some one else--and I won't." She reached out her arms to him, and blinded by tears she stumbled across the room to him. Walter should have seized this moment to tell her the whole truth. There is one very strong argument for always telling the truth. It is so desperately hard to know which moments in our rapidly moving life are such as to make a lie fatal. Most of us believe that ultimately truth will out. But most of us try to control its outings. On the basis of what we vaguely call "worldly wisdom," by silences, by false emphasis--sometimes by frank lies--we try to protect our friends and enemies from the vision of Truth in her disturbing nudity. And there is hardly one of us who would not give his right hand if, in some crisis of his life, he had only had sense enough to tell the whole truth. There were very real obstacles between Walter and his desire. Between their experiences and their outlooks on life there was a great chasm. But his best chance was to face things frankly. Beatrice was only an incident. Mabel was a more important matter. But still he could have made out a good case for himself. When he was six--nearly seven--years younger, he had fallen romantically in love with her. He had followed that love with a fidelity which promised well for his future obligations. It had become a habit, and a six years' habit is hard to break. He had come to the realization that this blind infatuation was leading him to waste. With all the manhood he could muster he had tried to break the habit. Sometimes--possibly for a long time to come--the nerve-cells of his brain would fall back into the old ruts. But when this happened, it would be only the ghost of a dead desire. Even the ghost would be laid in time.