As the artificial daylight went into eclipse, greener grew the color of the Satanic mood--a hard green, mixed from the yellow of chagrin and the blue-black of rage. He felt as mean as a son-in-law. It did not help in the slightest to have Old Original commiserate him on the projection of a picture which had shown his rival running true; no more did that unworthy’s impious request that he be appointed royal previewer of all future films. Even the minister’s report on the entire success of a particularly contemptible political coup which he had devised for the postponement of that good will toward men threatened in the “Little Book” did not long divert him. At length, consigning the rest of the day’s deviltry to various fiend aides, the Author of Evil forced his mind to concentrate on the vital question evolved from last night. How best might mortal pusillanimity be revealed to the rose-goggled eyes of true love? Through the mood which he had been suffering since the fiasco of his “evening out,” he recognized violent tendencies within himself which made him feel, more than ever before, his power to devise and inflict suffering. In this case, however, violence would not do; would destroy what he wished to create. With meticulous delicacy he must handle this mind feminine if he hoped to pluck therefrom its dearest idealization. What can the heart of woman not forgive? He asked himself and considered, one by one, many answers. “_I_ never could forgive infidelity!” At that loudest and oftenest cry of the wives of the world the malignant lips curled. “_Never?_” Yet most did forgive who found it advisable so to do. “Liquor? I _couldn’t_ endure that kind of a beast.” But which martyr-wife exchanged her drunken lord except for a better fate? “Dishonesty? I _wouldn’t_ live with a man I didn’t respect.” Wouldn’t she? Then why were the jail-gates draped with weeping faces and stretching arms--why the late-life efforts to “live it down” of the work-wasted woman and the husband who had served out his time? Never? Couldn’t? Wouldn’t? What the heart of woman cannot forgive is what she has not been called upon to forgive. The libertine’s lady might just as well have learned to endure shame through ebriety, the drunkard’s dupe through lechery. What type of man, then, does the mind of woman most despise? A villain? Scarcely, when the worst are loved the best. A traitor, a weakling, a failure? For the lowest of these, pardons are plead. Upon them, regenerating love is poured. What--_what_ to her is the sin unpardonable? With eyes closed against possible distractions, Satan rough-shadowed the suspects of his thoughts. And just when his mind seemed emptied of ideas, he had it. Of course. _Of course._ A caught coward was what she could not forgive, woman. He would star one earthling for benefit of his spirit-mate in a play of cowardice. “Afterward”? After he was through, she scarcely would press her request.