“I wonder--” her voice, in spite of her effort, was fast getting beyond her control--“I wonder if there’s anything--anything in the world--that’s any more to you than that, or if I’m just part of the game. Oh,” she choked, but recovered her voice and went on rapidly, “you didn’t want to tell me about the Curtin business. Is it because--” He rose heavily from his chair; and, coming up behind her, laid his hands on her shoulders. “Steady,” he said; “you’re tired to-night. I hadn’t noticed before, but you must be rather played out. I never knew you to break this way before. What you need is a good rest. You go to bed now, and to-morrow, when you feel better, we’ll talk about going away somewhere where you can rest up.” “No,” she said quickly, facing him, “I don’t want to go away. I’d rather see it out here.” With an effort, which he did not at all appreciate, she was rapidly regaining control of herself. When next she spoke, her manner was natural. “I’m rather fagged to-night,” she admitted; “but I’ll be all right in the morning. And I had been worrying over your not telling me about--that. I’ve been acting in a very silly way about it. Forget it, dear, won’t you?” “I think we’d better call it square,” he answered, smiling. “I ought to have told you all about it. I don’t quite know why I didn’t.” He went upstairs with her; then, leaving her at the door, came down to finish his cigar. He sat there a long time, thinking. Harriet’s break, as he called it, alarmed him; largely, it must be confessed, on his own account. She was the only companion he had; she stimulated him and rested him, and, what was most important, she appreciated him. The delight would be gone out of a successful campaign if she were not at his elbow to perceive and applaud and suggest. Yet his thoughts were not wholly selfish. Harriet was the best part of him; his affection for her was perhaps induced only by her strong devotion to him, but whatever its cause and its limitations, it was genuine. But he did not at all appreciate how serious her condition really was, and he soon ceased thinking about her at all. He took up the evening paper, and after reflecting a long while over the commercial pages, he decided that lard was going to be a lot higher in the next few months, and that he would buy some next day. Then he threw aside the paper, and his mind reverted to John Bagsbury. In telling Harriet that he did not expect ever to be forced into a fight with John, he had not been frank. There was, indeed, as yet no reason for anticipating such an occurrence; but Sponley was intelligent enough to trust his intuitions, and he felt sure that sooner or later he and John would have to settle the question as to which was the better man.