“Ah, poor Other Girl!” murmured Cis. “I don’t like to have you say what she would have hated! Better let me be a little bit sore, because I’ll fight it down, and I’m alive, and it’s like taking an advantage of a dead girl to say what you did. Do you mind talking of her, Rodney dear? Would you tell me about her? Does it hurt to speak of her? What did she look like? Dark hair and eyes, because mine are not. Was she little and sweet, or tall and splendid? Rod, oh, my poor Rod, you suffered, you must have suffered when she--died! And I could not be there to help you! I’d have helped you, dear. Will you tell me all these things? Can you bear it? Does it still hurt, Rod? If it does, oh, if it does, then this is not altogether my home! It is part hers, and so are you!” “I don’t care any more for her, Cicely Adair, than I care for your friend Nan’s cat--if she has one! Don’t you get notions! It was a mad infatuation; I might have known how she’d have turned out, but I was young, and--well, Cis, I got all snarled up with her. That’s not much like my love for you!” Rodney cried. “Oh me, oh dear!” Cis half sobbed. “I don’t know whether that makes it better; I’ve got to get used to this, and go off to think it out by myself. When did she die? Where did you bury her?” “In the Chicago divorce court,” said Rodney savagely. “In--the--” Cis stopped short, her eyes dilated, staring at Rodney, her hands clasping the arms of “the lady of the house’s chair.” “Rodney Moore, she is not dead? She is alive? You--you!--have a living wife?” “No, no, no! Not yet, not yet, Holly! At Christmas I’ll have,” cried Rodney springing to his feet. “I am free, free as you are, _free_! I’m not married! I divorced her; she was as bad as they come, and I’m freed by my decree to marry. I’m no more married than you are.” He took a step toward her, but Cis held out both hands, warding him off. “She is alive. Don’t touch me!” she cried. “She is alive. No decree kills her; your wife is alive,” she gasped.