"We have been trusting ourselves on quicksands, Paul, and between us we've done one wise thing. We've discovered it in time. Maybe it would be still wiser now to be really frank for once and then to be very careful afterwards." "What do you mean, exactly?" "I divined your unhappiness, and I knew my own--for a long time I've known my own. You have been petted and praised by women--women of that world which was once mine. You say I love you. Do you know why--?" She wheeled suddenly and spoke without disguise. "Not because you are a great musician or a celebrity. It is because I realize how weak and foolish and helpless you are." The man winced, but she went on steadily. "In all woman-love there is a ruling element of mother-love. I wanted to take you into my heart and make you happy, to ... to give you all a woman can give a man." He came forward and his words were unsteady. "You can at least let me be your best and closest friend--" "No. I doubt if men and women can really be friends. It comes to mean too much--or too little." "But, Marcia--" Again she interrupted and again the voice was monotonous, almost lifeless. "No, dear. All our silly little jokes--things that have come to be dear little traditions between us--would be mockeries now." She raised her chin, and said suddenly, with a forced laugh: "I don't often have these brain-storms. They make me very foolish. We must see less of each other, Paul." "And yet," he stubbornly argued, "it has been only an hour since the basis of our comradeship was secure enough." "In that hour we have come a long way, dear. It's going to be hard enough to get back as it is." She stood still and, after a brief silence, spoke once more. "I must brush these cobwebs away from my brain ... only--" suddenly her eyes flooded and there was a gasping sob in her voice--"only they aren't cobwebs--they are cables and chains! I was a fool to expect to be happy. I haven't been happy for years. I've never had what I've wanted.... I haven't even been able to have my baby with me." Marcia went slowly to a chair and sat staring, wide-eyed, at the wall. At last she looked up and commanded in a whisper. "You must go now--don't say good-by--just go!" Paul took up his hat and let himself out into the narrow hall. CHAPTER XXII The illness of Elizabeth Burton proved tedious and perplexing to the specialists who traced its origin beyond the purely physical to some unconfessed thing gnawing at the peace of her brain. Accordingly they did what they could and, having effected a temporary repair, fell back on the customary prescription of change and travel.