In the circle immediately surrounding her and her husband were her father and mother, Elise and Evans Rutledge, and Hal Lodge but just now coming to his senses and his feet. Behind these were Mrs. Hazard, Captain Howard, Senator Richland, and a gathering of other excited guests. For a space after Helen’s speech the scene was steady and fixed as for a flashlight picture, and was photographed on Elise’s brain: the incredulity on her father’s face—the horror on that of Evans Rutledge—the perfectly restrained features of Howard—the quickly suppressed smile of Richland as he glanced at Evans in lightning comprehension of all the situation meant—the ghastly pallor of Mrs. Phillips as she sank voiceless in a dead faint— "No—o!" The harshly aspirated protest of Mr. Phillips was propelled from his lungs with a burst of indignant anger, but drawn out at the end into a pathetic quaver—and the scene dissolved. Rutledge caught and lifted Mrs. Phillips whose collapse was unnoticed by her husband in his transfixed stare at Helen, and pushing back through the crowd was about to place her upon a settle in the hall; but at Elise’s bidding he carried her up the broad stairs and left her in the care of her daughter and Lola Hazard. There could be no good-bye said—no time for it; but at the glance of dismissal Elise gave him from her mother’s bedside—at the look of suffering in her eyes—his heart was like to burst. Down-stairs the confusion was painful. The guests were hesitating between being accounted so ill-bred as to stare at a family scene, and running away from it as from a scourge. To her father’s unsteady denial Helen repeated her simple statement: "I am his wife." "Since when?" Mr. Phillips demanded. "A year ago last October." The father looked about him as for help. "Come along with me," he said. "Both of you. Good night, ladies and gentlemen," he added to the hesitating guests—and there was a breath of relief and a scattering for home. * * * * * With his hand upon Helen’s arm, and Hayward following, President Phillips led the way to his offices. "I am not to be disturbed," he told a servant after he had stopped at the door and waved Helen and Hayward into the room. "Ask Mrs. Phillips if she will please come here." Entering, he motioned Hayward to a chair, and, taking Helen with him, went into the inner office and closed the door behind him. "Now, my child," he said, with a break in his voice despite every effort to keep it steady, "tell me all about this, and we—we’ll find a way out." He patted her hand reassuringly. "There’s no way out, papa. I loved Hayward, and I married him." "No, no, child, not love. You were infatuated—he was a footman and you are—" "He was a gentleman," interrupted Helen. "In a way, perhaps, but uncultured and common—how could—" "He is a Harvard man," Helen cut in again, "a man of intelligence and education. He is—"