"Poor Mary!" But the words rang hollow. One couldn't possibly call a woman poor who had given away so much with a single gesture. They tried to talk it over but found nothing to say. At last Mills took Dulcie home. She asked him in and he went. Aunt Priscilla was out, and tea was served for the two of them from a lacquered tea cart--Orange Pekoe and Japanese wafers. It was delicious but unsubstantial. Dulcie with her coat off was like a wood sprite in leaf green. Her hair was gold, her eyes wet violets; but Mills missed something. He had a feeling that he wanted to get home and talk things over with Mary. At last he rose, and it was then that Dulcie laid her hand on his arm. "Mills, I can't." "Can't what?" "Let you leave Mary." "Why not?" "It wouldn't be right." "It would be as right as it has ever been, Dulcie." "I know how it must look to you, but--but I knew all the time that wrong is wrong. I thought I was a different Dulcie from the girl of long ago, but I'm not. I still have a conscience; I can't take you away from Mary." "You're not taking me away. You heard what she said--she doesn't want me." And Dulcie didn't want him! He saw it in that moment! The things that Mary had said had scared her. She didn't want to prod and push and praise. She didn't want to decide what he should have for dinner. She didn't want to weigh the merits of beefsteak and mushrooms or beefsteak and onions--onions! He felt suddenly old, fat, bald-headed! The glow had faded from everything. He did not protest or attempt to persuade her. He took his hat, kissed her hand and got away. Aunt Priscilla coming in found Dulcie in tears by the fire. "I've given him up, Aunt Cilla." "Why?" "Well, it wouldn't be right." She came into Aunt Priscilla's bedroom later to talk it over. She had on the rosy house coat. She spoke of going back to Paris. "It will be better for both of us. After all, Aunt Cilla, we are what we are fundamentally, and we Puritans can't get away from our consciences, can we?" "Some of us," said Aunt Priscilla, "can't." The old woman lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out. She was glad that Dulcie had stopped the thing in time. But she had a feeling that the solution of the situation could not be laid to an awakened conscience. She hoped that some day Dulcie would tell her the truth. * * * * * It was still raining when Mills reached home. The house was dark, the fire had died down. He went up-stairs. The boys were in bed. There was a light in Mary's room. He opened the door. Mary was propped up on her pillows reading a book. He stopped, uncertain, on the threshold. "Come in," she said, "my head's better." He crossed the room and stood beside her. "Oh, Mary," he said, and his face worked. He dropped on his knees by the bed and cried like a child. She laid her hand on his head and smoothed his thin hair.