CHAPTER XVI WINIFRED DRIFTS Winifred, pale as death, rose to receive her lover, with that letter in her hand which made an appointment with her at a house in East Orange; a letter which she believed to have been written by a dramatic agent, but which was actually inspired by Senator Meiklejohn. It was the bait of the trap which should put her once more in the power of Meiklejohn and his accomplices. During a few tense seconds the girl prayed for power to play the bitter part which had been thrust upon her--to play it well for the sake of the man who loved her, and whom she loved. The words of his mother were still in her ears. She had to make him think that she did not care for him. In the last resort she had to fly from him. She had tacitly promised to do this woeful thing. Far enough from her innocent mind was it to dream that the visit of Rex's mother had been brought about by her enemies in order to deprive her of a protector and separate her from her lover at the very time when he was most necessary to save her. Carshaw entered in high spirits. "Well, I have news--" he began. "But, hello! What's the matter?" "With whom?" asked Winifred. "You look pale." "Do I? It is nothing." "You have been crying, surely." "Have I?" "Tell me. What is wrong?" "Why should I tell _you_, if anything is wrong?" He stood amazed at this speech. "Odd words," said he, looking at her in a stupor of surprise, almost of anger. "Whom should you tell but me?" This touched Winifred, and, struggling with the lump in her throat, she said, unsteadily: "I am not very well to-day; if you will leave me now, and come perhaps some other time, you will oblige me." Carshaw strode nearer and caught her shoulder. "But what a tone to me! Have I done something wrong, I wonder? Winnie, what is it?" "I have told you I am not very well. I do not desire your company--to-day." "Whew! What majesty! It must be something outrageous. But what? Won't you be dear and kind, and tell me?" "You have done nothing." "Yes, I have. I think I can guess. I spoke of Helen Tower yesterday as of an old sweetheart--was that it? And it is all jealousy. Surely I didn't say much. What on earth did I say? That she was like a Gainsborough; that she was rather a beauty; that she was _elancee_ at twenty-two. But I didn't mean any harm. Why, it's jealousy!" At this Winifred drew herself up to discharge a thunderbolt, and though she winced at the Olympian effort, managed to say distinctly: "There can be no jealousy where there is no love." Carshaw stood silent, momentarily stunned, like one before whom a thunderbolt has really exploded. At last, looking at the pattern of a frayed carpet, he said humbly enough: "Well, then, I must be a very unfortunate sort of man, Winifred." "Don't believe me!" Winifred wished to cry out. But the words were checked on her white lips. The thought arose in her, "He that putteth his hand to the plow and looketh back--"