She lay unstirring on his shoulder, her lids drooping, thinking, understanding, searching, accepting. It had happened. It was true. Chiefest of all in life, and suddenly, and in the twinkling of an eye, had become the passionate necessity for the happiness and well-being of this man. And she knew that she would give her life without a second’s hesitation to protect his. And she knew that in her heart, her mind, her soul, he came first. And all that even most remotely pertained to him. And then, only, came herself. Which was her career. The career, hardly begun, to which she had dedicated all the best in her of belief and effort. The career which, germinating, had filled her ardent heart of a child, which had budded in girlhood, and was in earliest blossom, now. The career for which she had so gratefully gone shabby, had starved, had slept under the stars in public parks. Lying there on his breast she felt it slipping away--slipping through her slender fingers on his breast. And if, for an instant, her small fingers clutched at what was slipping through them, it was his coat she grasped. And held, tightly, knowing now what truly was her goal and what above all else she must hold her whole life through. * * * * * “Dear,” he said gently, “we are here. Do you feel strong enough to stand, or shall I carry you?” If her smile were faintly wise it also was tenderly ironical. God knew--and had whispered to her--who it was between these two who would do the carrying; and who it would be who was carried by the stronger. “Darling,” she murmured, “you’re so funny. I only needed a nap because I didn’t sleep last night.” “Have you really been asleep, Eris?” “Well, I had visions, anyhow. Please pay this frightfully expensive taxi and carry up my luggage, because Hattie has left and I’m going to cook our dinner.” They climbed the bare and poorly lighted stairs. Eris fumbled for her keys, selected the right one, and opened the door. The whole place was sweet with the scent of flowers. As always, the girl’s gratitude was out of all proportion for anything offered her; and now, in the living-room, she stood enchanted, gazing at the flowers, touching them here and there with finger tip and lip. “Oh,” she murmured, “you are so sweet to me, Barry.... And you must have brought them and arranged them while I was out.” She turned, happily, and took both his hands. And saw the darkness of impending trouble in his clouded face. “Darling?” she exclaimed. “It’s nothing, Eris.... That miserable wench of yours lied about you.... I suppose I’d better tell you----” “What did she say, dear?” “That--I can’t!--and it was a damned lie----” “Perhaps it wasn’t. Tell me.” “I’m ashamed to.... She said a man was here--all night----” “Oh,” she said disdainfully, “that was my husband. He pretended to be ill and starving and I let him in. When he got inside he tried to bully me. So I locked my door; and in the morning I turned him out.”