If you look into life, you will find that the key-note of every woman's existence is love--the broad, the great, the grand passion. She may take up a million causes, champion a thousand aims; but the end that she reaches--is love. To fail in such an end--to lose the grasp of it when once it might have been hers--this is the most bitter of aloes; gall that eats into her blood and corrodes her clearest vision. A man, forging destinies, is a king, to be mated only with a woman who loves. There are exceptions; but these are not needed to prove the rule; for there hangs even some doubt, like a fly in the amber, in the history of Jeanne D'Arc, the most patent an example of them all. Yet whether, as some chronicles would say, she was never burnt as a witch, but smuggled into the country, and there mated in love--and it would seem a shame unpardonable to rob history of a great martyr and the Church of Rome of a saint--it makes no odds in the counting. Great women have loved greatly--lesser women have loved less--but all who are of the sex have made the heart their master, and obeyed it whenever it has truly called. So it had come to Sally. Beyond all doubt, she loved; beyond all question, she was prepared to obey the faintest call that her heart prompted. Janet, tender to her that night, fondling her and caressing her, answering to her with the very heart that she had tried to stifle within herself, was Janet herself again the next morning. But Sally was unchanged. She dressed herself silently before the mirror, looking out through the window at the grey river-fog that fell gloomily across the water and Janet lay in bed, her hands crossed behind her head, a cigarette hanging between her lips and the smoke curling up past her eyes. The school of Art did not open until eleven o'clock that morning. Sally had to be at the office at nine. "There'll be a fog up in Town," said Janet. She did not take the cigarette out of her mouth. It jerked up and down with the words. "Sure to be," Sally replied. "Suppose Mr. Traill will come and take you out to lunch?" Sally turned quickly. "I told you last night," she said bitterly. "We shan't see each--" "Oh yes, I know that. But do you think he means it?" "I'm sure he does." "I'm not." Sally unpinned a coil of her hair and re-arranged it more carefully, unconscious that she did it because Janet had suggested the vague hope in her mind that he might come. "Why are you so different this morning?" she asked. Janet brushed away a piece of glowing ash that had fallen like a cloud of dust into one of the hollows below her neck. "Didn't know I was very different." "You are."