“You know what we want,” said Felix absently. “Yes, sir. Everything shall be as always!” He beamed and ceased to exist. Felix turned again to Rose-Ann, who sat staring quietly at the card. “You aren’t surprised?” he asked. “I feel that I knew it all along, somehow!” she said. “Yes, so did I.... That’s the queer thing. All this other—” “Was just Phyllis’s game with Clive. I don’t mean she did it on purpose. She couldn’t help it!” “It was Clive’s game too,” he insisted. “In a sense, yes.... She tormented him, ran away from him—and played up to you—all for Clive’s sake.... I’m sorry, Felix!” “For me? You needn’t be. You were victimized too. By your pride—just as I by my vanity.” “Yes,” she said, “and now—at last—they can have their happiness!” They were silent for a moment, contemplating the tragic farce in which they had acted their tragi-comic parts. “So,” he said ironically, “it was to make their marriage possible that we were so busy destroying our own!” “No—I won’t have that. If she’s hurt you, I’m sorry, Felix; I really am. But I can’t think of us just as helpless victims. Why did we do it? We have our own quarrel, Felix.” “Yes—a quarrel in which no one else counts. I know. But first let me explain. She did hurt me. But I found consolation.” “In whom?” she asked sharply. “Elva Macklin.” “That queer egotistic little theatre-waif! Felix!” “Say what you like—I’m not ashamed of it.” “You _couldn’t_ love her!” “No—I never pretended to. Nor she.” “I’m ashamed for you, Felix, if you’re not!” “Be ashamed, then. I can’t be. I’ve tried.” “Why try?” “People that are ashamed—can be forgiven.” “But I can’t understand it....” “Neither can I.” “If it had been some one you loved—” “You might have lost me.” “I’ve lost you now,” she said sadly. “No.” “Yes.” “I’ll tell you one thing I _am_ ashamed of. No—I don’t know whether I can or not. It’s too silly.” “Tell me.” “I’ll tell it backwards.... This morning I found a bottle of wine in my apartment—the relic of that orgy of which you are so scornful. It was unopened. I decided to make a present of it to my landlady. She thanked me and rummaged on a shelf and gave me in return a book—a book with my name in it that she had found in her area-way. She had been saving it for me.... That’s the end of the story. Here’s the book.” He took from his pocket a soiled copy of the Bab Ballads. She gazed at it. “Oh! you took it with you?” “To my new home, yes—to remember you by. But wait. It did make me remember you—too well—and so I flung it out the window. That’s what I am ashamed of, Rose-Ann. I know it’s absurd. But we’re telling each other the truth.... And it’s not Elva, nor anything else—but just what I did to that book, that I want to ask your forgiveness for....” “Was _she_ there?” “Yes. That was why.” “I’m glad you did it!” “You don’t understand. That book—it’s more than just you, Rose-Ann: it’s all you stand for to me.... I wanted to get rid of it all.”