"So this is the end of my day," he said. He laughed again. "I might have known it was too good to last. What a fool I was to imagine that just because one thing had come my way everything else was going to follow suit. What a poor, blithering fool!" "Steve!" No lethargy in the girl's figure now, in the face of a sudden turned toward him appealingly. "Don't take it that way or say such things. Nothing has changed in the least. I'm still your friend, as I've always been; so is Harry Randall--and the rest. You're still a successful writer; you've proved it to-day, and you'll prove it further with the new book you're working on now. I repeat, nothing has altered in the least. Don't talk that way. It hurts me." In his chair, erect now, Armstrong merely smiled. But his color was higher than normal and the blue eyes were unnaturally bright. "No, nothing has changed, I suppose," he said evenly. "You're right there. I've simply been in a trance--that's all--and I've inadvertently come to. I seem to have the habit of doing that." He smiled again, hopelessly cruel in his egotism. "Of course I have friendship, oceans of it, yours particularly, as I've had all the time. And success; it monopolizes the sky, fairly blots out the stars, and obscures the sun like an eclipse. There's no end to the success I have. It's infinite. And still further, incentive: to be and to do and to fight." The smile vanished. He could not mock in the face of that thought even yet. "Incentive! What a travesty. Elice, you've killed the last trace of incentive I had just now." "Steve!" The girl's hands lifted imperiously. "Stop. Have you no pity?" She shook the swift-gathering flood from her eyes rebelliously and faced him fair. "You'll be very sorry you said such things after you've had time to think," she went on. "Don't add regret to the rest to-night. Please don't." "Sorry, perhaps," echoed the man, "and regret--possibly. Anyway, what does it matter? It's true." "True--no," swiftly. "I can't believe it. I won't. Don't say that. In pity, don't." "But, I repeat, it is true," doggedly. "I at least can't help that. Elice, don't cry so!" Of a sudden he was on his feet bending over her. "Please don't. I love you!" "Don't touch me! I can't stand it!" The girl had drawn away swiftly, the repression of years for an instant broken. "You dare to tell me that--now! Love--" She cut herself short with an effort of will and, rising hurriedly, walked the length of the room to the window. For more than a minute, while Armstrong stood staring after her dumbly, she remained so; her face pressed against the cold pane, looking out upon the white earth. Deliberately, normally, she turned. Seemingly without an effort, so naturally that even Armstrong was deceived, she smiled.