Catherine went to change her dress, and then searched for Frothingham. He was alone in the billiard room, half asleep, on one of the wall lounges. At sight of him--she saw him before he saw her--her courage wavered. Yes, he was a decent sort of chap; and she was treating him badly, despicably--had bargained fairly with him, had used the contract publicly to aggrandise herself at his expense, was about to break her contract and humiliate him, injure him, through no fault of his. He had been fair with her, she had been false with him, was about to be base. “I can’t,” she said to herself. “At least, not in cold blood.” He saw her, and his face lighted up. She smiled, nodded, hurried through the billiard room, and disappeared into the hall beyond. As she turned its angle her knees became shaky and her face white. Then Wallingford suddenly appeared at the conservatory door. He came toward her as if he were going to pass without stopping. But he halted. “Well?” he said. She leaned against the wall. Her throat was dry and her eyelids were trembling. “What is it?” he asked gently. She hung her head. “Don’t be afraid to say it to _me_,” he urged. “There isn’t anything you couldn’t say to me.” “Do you--do you--do you care for me?” she said, in a queer little choked, squeaky voice. He laughed slightly, and came close to her and looked down at her. “You’re the only thing in all this world I do care for,” he said. “Why?” “Oh, nothing--don’t follow me,” and she darted back toward the billiard room. [Illustration: _“Just my rotten luck,” he muttered_] Frothingham was still there, seated now at the open fire. “Ah--you! I’m glad you’ve come back,” he drawled. “I want you to release me from my engagement,” she said. His jaw dropped, and he stared stupidly at her. He could hardly believe that this impetuous, energetic creature was the languorous, affected, dreamy Catherine. “I mean it,” she sped on. “I’ve no excuse to make for myself. But I can’t marry you. And you ought to be glad you’re rid of me.” Her tone instantly convinced him that he was done for. He turned a sickly yellow, and put his head between his hands and stared into the fire. His brain was in a whirl. “Just my rotten luck,” he muttered. “I don’t hope that you’ll forgive me,” she was saying. “You couldn’t have any respect for me. I’m only saving a few little shreds of self-respect. I’m----” “You mustn’t do it, Catherine. You mustn’t, you----” he interrupted, rising and facing her. “I must be free. I care for someone else. Don’t discuss it, please. Just say you let me go.” “It ain’t right.” Cupidity and vanity were lashing his anger into a storm. “You can’t go back--you’ve gone too far. Why, we’re as good as married.” “Don’t make me any more ashamed than I am,” she pleaded humbly.