The two women floated gracefully out of the room. They were rejoined very shortly by the men, whom it is presumed found their points of view on “the entrancing subject” too different for prolonged discussion. Gladys and the doctor stood out on the balcony. The balmy June evening filled with the noises of the streets below seemed very soothing to them, and their talk interested both immensely, so much so that they did not hear Mrs. le Mentier preparing to sing, and only ceased when her low, sweet voice rang out, “Life and the world and mine ownself are changed for a dream’s sake—for a dream’s sake.” It was a simple song, but she sung it with a quiet passion and intensity that entirely captivated her audience. When the song was over they were not ready with their applause, and even the doctor looked as if he had met an ideal. Edith sang again, and they went home, all but Jack Hurstly. “I must speak to you a minute, Jack,” his hostess had murmured as he turned over the leaves of her music, and for the song’s sake he stayed. She stood in the middle of the room, her hands held loosely in front of her, like a child’s. “Haven’t you punished me long enough—Jack?” she asked. “My dear Mrs. le Mentier,” he began. “Ah!” she murmured, “Mrs. le Mentier! Mrs.—le Mentier—Jack!” He had before wished that he had never come; there seemed now nothing else to do but to wish it more strongly. She looked so young and piteous, and her eyes were full of a real emotion. The only ways left were to be weak or brutal. The last alternative would end the scene quicker. “It doesn’t seem much good, does it,” he finally said, “to go over all this again?” She smiled wistfully. “Is it all over then for you?” she asked. “Do you know, it was silly of me, wasn’t it? I somehow thought you might still be the same, and the three years’ penance enough for the past mistake?” She spoke with a kind of strained slowness very pitiful to hear. “Things have changed so!” he muttered. “Things?” she laughed. “How a man falls back on the inanimate! Things don’t change, my dear Jack, but women grow older and men grow wiser—that’s all. Let me congratulate you then on your increase of wisdom, and you will be a little sorry—for my increasing age?” He frowned and looked at the door; she winced as if he had struck her. “You want to go?” she said. “Well, there’s one thing, my dear Jack, for you to remember. If you should get tired of your sweet firebrand in the slums, ‘things have not changed,’ you will remember, won’t you? And women don’t—so the way is still open.” He stepped past her to the door, but he turned back to look at her (he often turned back). She was twisting her fan in her hands and trying to smile. “You can always come back,” she said. “Oh! I’m not such a brute as that!” exclaimed the man at the door. “Oh, aren’t you?” she laughed. “You have your limits, then? I’m so glad! And you had better go now, for I have mine too.”