"If we kept him in college, there would be relapses,--inevitably, I think,--and I should only have to do this over again. Not that I should mind," she interrupted herself hastily, "if it would do any good. But every relapse would make it harder. There seems to be no escape. I think he'll have to come out. That, I understand, is the sense of the meeting?" She looked at Fox again, smiling whimsically. "That is my advice," said he, "if I am privileged to give advice on the subject. I'm sorry to be seeming to take away his opportunities. His regret will grow as he grows older." Sally shook her head. "He doesn't seem to have any regret." "He will have." "He may. I should think he would. But it's his own fault and that's all there is to say about Charlie. I've done the best I could and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I'll have him come into the office to-morrow and I think he'll be glad to. It's a change, you know." Sally looked at Fox and smiled again; but if there was anything humorous in her smile there was much more that was scornful. "And now, Fox," Sally continued, very low--he could hardly hear the words--and looking away again, "I have something else to tell you. It is rather terrible, I think." Her voice was not steady and she stopped, trying to control it. She did not want to cry; she did not mean to. "I saw--" She choked, but went on bravely. "I saw my father this morning." "What!" He cried in a voice as low as her own. The effect of her words was as great as she could have expected, if she thought of the effect at all. He put out his hand instinctively; but Sally withdrew hers. "Where, Sally?" "He came to the hotel to see me." She spoke in a monotonous voice. She found that her only hope lay in using that voice. She might begin to cry at any moment. If she should--she was almost worn out and she was afraid. In that same monotonous voice she gave every detail of the interview. She did not omit anything. It was all burned into her memory. Fox did not speak. When she came to an end of her account she found that even her monotonous voice could not save her. She was perilously near to tears and her chin would quiver in spite of all that she could do. "Sally! Sally!" said Fox tenderly. He saw her condition. "Don't tell me any more now if it distresses you." "I may as well," she replied as well as she could. She smiled up at him, but her chin quivered more and more. "I may as well--now as well as another time. For--for I've got to tell you, Fox." She looked at him imploringly. "I've got to tell somebody, and the somebody is always you." She smiled again tearfully, and looked away again. Fox could not stand many such smiles. He would--would do something, he did not know just what; but he sat gazing at her with infinite tenderness and pity, saying nothing.