But there must be no turning back now, either. There was no other way. If Arthur ever came back--but fear not, he wouldn’t! She had risked so much and lost--lost him. Her little venture into true love had been such a failure. Before Arthur had come all had been well enough. Barton, stout and simple and frank and direct, had in some way--how, she could scarcely realize now--offered sufficient of a future. But now, now! He had enough money, she knew, to build a cottage for the two of them. He had told her so. He would do his best always to make her happy, she was sure of that. They could live in about the state her parents were living in--or a little better, not much--and would never want. No doubt there would be children, because he craved them--several of them--and that would take up her time, long years of it--the sad, gray years! But then Arthur, whose children she would have thrilled to bear, would be no more, a mere memory--think of that!--and Barton, the dull, the commonplace, would have achieved his finest dream--and why? Because love was a failure for her--that was why--and in her life there could be no more true love. She would never love any one again as she had Arthur. It could not be, she was sure of it. He was too fascinating, too wonderful. Always, always, wherever she might be, whoever she might marry, he would be coming back, intruding between her and any possible love, receiving any possible kiss. It would be Arthur she would be loving or kissing. She dabbed at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief, turned her face close to the window and stared out, and then as the environs of Latonia came into view, wondered (so deep is romance): What if Arthur should come back at some time--or now! Supposing he should be here at the station now, accidentally or on purpose, to welcome her, to soothe her weary heart. He had met her here before. How she would fly to him, lay her head on his shoulder, forget forever that Barton ever was, that they had ever separated for an hour. Oh, Arthur! Arthur! But no, no; here was Latonia--here the viaduct over her train, the long business street and the cars marked “Center” and “Langdon Avenue” running back into the great city. A few blocks away in tree-shaded Bethune Street, duller and plainer than ever, was her parents’ cottage and the routine of that old life which was now, she felt, more fully fastened upon her than ever before--the lawn-mowers, the lawns, the front porches all alike. Now would come the going to and fro of Barton to business as her father and she now went to business, her keeping house, cooking, washing, ironing, sewing for Barton as her mother now did these things for her father and herself. And she would not be in love really, as she wanted to be. Oh, dreadful! She could never escape it really, now that she could endure it less, scarcely for another hour. And yet she must, must, for the sake of--for the sake of--she closed her eyes and dreamed.