He nodded, and then as she did not continue, he opened his pocketbook and took out the release. She made no motion to take it; on the contrary, she leaned back and crossed her hands in her lap. “Yes,” she said, “that’s it. Well, you may stay, if you care to burn that scrap of paper.” It was now Max’s turn to hesitate, for the decision of freedom or captivity was in his own hands; the crisis he had so recklessly rushed to meet was now upon him. “What is in that paper?” asked Linburne, as one who has a right to question. Christine was perfectly good-tempered as she answered: “Well, Lee, it still belongs to Mr. Riatt; but if he decides not to burn it, I promise to tell you all about it as we drink our tea.” “Do you promise me that, Christine?” “Most solemnly, Lee.” She looked up at Linburne, and before Max knew what he was doing he found he had dropped the paper into the fire. Strangely enough, though the fire was hot, the paper did not catch at once, but curled and rocked an instant in the heat, before it disappeared in flame and smoke. Not until it was a black crisp did Christine turn to Linburne, and hold out her hand. “Good-by, Lee,” she said pleasantly. But he did not answer or take her hand. He left the room in silence. When the door had shut behind him, Christine glanced at her remaining visitor. “And now,” she said, “I suppose you are wishing you had not.” “What sort of a woman are you?” Riatt exclaimed. “Will you take any man that offers, me or Hickson, or Linburne or me again, just as luck will have it?” “I take the best that offers, Max--and that’s no lie.” The implied compliment did not soften Riatt. He went on: “If you and I are really to be married--” “If, my dear Max! What could be more certain?” “Since, then, we are to be married, you must tell me exactly what has taken place between you and Linburne.” “With pleasure. Won’t you sit down?” She pointed to a chair near her own, but Riatt remained standing. “Shall we have tea first?” “We’ll have the story.” “Oh, it’s not much of a story. Lee and I have known each other since we were children. I suppose I always had it in mind that I might marry him--” “You loved him?” “Certainly not. He always had too high an opinion of himself, and I used to enjoy taking it out of him--and making it up to him afterwards, too. I used to enjoy that as well. Sometimes, of course, he found the process too unbearable; and in one of his fits of anger at me, just after he left college, he went and blundered into this marriage with Pauline. She, you see, took him at his own valuation. His marriage seemed to put an end to everything between us--” “You surprise me.” Christine laughed. “Ah, I was younger then.” “You kept on seeing him?” “Naturally we met now and then. Sometimes he used to tell me how I was the only woman--” “That is your idea of putting an end to everything?”