"Pardon me," she said evenly. "I'm not often hysterical." She was returning slowly. "I'll be glad when vacation comes. I think I'm--tired." She seated herself and motioned the other back into his place,--a motion that was a command. "Now, tell me, please, that you didn't mean what you said a moment ago when we were both irresponsible. It will make us both sleep better." The smile had left Armstrong's face now, and in its place was the pallor of reaction. But he was quiet also. "I wish I could," he said steadily, "but I can't. It'll be exactly as it was before." The girl was still smiling,--that same normal, apparently effortless, smile. "Nonsense!" she refuted, in tones deliberately matter-of-fact. "There's all the difference in the world. Before you had no audience. And now--the entire country will listen now." "It doesn't matter," dully. "It's always been you that counted really. Success was an incident, but you were the real incentive." "I?" She laughed gently. "On the contrary it was I who tried to lead you away from your work, to make you practical. Don't you remember the Graham offer?" "Yes," hurriedly. "I've thought of it a thousand times. It was the big mistake of my life when I refused his proposal. If I'd accepted then--" "You'd not have been a successful writer whose work goes on sale to-day in every city in the United States." "Perhaps. But I would have had you. What do I care for success in comparison to you!" Listening, just for an instant the girl's nostrils tightened; again she laughed. "We seem to be travelling in a circle," she bantered, "and keep returning to the starting-point. It's discouraging." "It's written," said Armstrong, simply. "We can't avoid it. With me you're the starting-point as you're the end, always. Didn't you recognize yourself so in the last novel?" The girl settled back in her seat wearily. "You told me, I recall," she said. "And in the one before?" "You told me that also." Armstrong was observing her steadily. "You are in the new one too," he said; "the one I've been working on--but which will never be completed now. You've killed the girl there too, Elice." "Steve!" The hands had gone swiftly to the girl's ears, covered them completely. "I shan't listen. This is worse than folly. It's madness." "I can't help it," monotonously. "It's myself. I can't avoid being myself." "Nor I myself, Steve," very gently. "Can't you realize that?" The man passed his hand across his eyes as though brushing away something tangible. "No, I can't realize anything," he said dully, "except that I love you--and have lost. This and that the world is dead--and I am alone in it." For the second time the girl arose, and even yet quite steadily. But at last her lips were trembling.