“Do! Ought I to be here taking up your time? Perhaps you wanted to get away from every one or you wouldn’t have come.” Dan felt the contrast between them more and more; his clothes seemed poorly fitted and his scarf pin a trifle gaudy, his shoes the fire-sale variety—a country bumpkin beside this adorable, tall girl in the lace and pink satin with distracting, tangly ribbons. “I like to talk to you, Dan. I wondered how we would meet!” “What made you come back?” he demanded. “It wasn’t the Corners and I don’t flatter myself it was me ... for you could have written me at any time and I would have come!” The slim fingers stopped plaiting the grass. “Would you—_really_?” He looked at her with despairing eyes. “Did you get any big baskets of orchids and lilies with a card, ‘from an old friend’?” “Were they from you?” she said sadly. “Oh, Dan, it was too bad you ever had to care for me!” “Can you stop the birds from singing or the sun from shining—or a fool for loving some one very fine?” “Why, no,” Thurley looked out at the hills. “That’s always the hardest thing in the world—not the caring for some one but caring for some one who doesn’t care for you!” Dan reached over to take her hand. “Is it that that brought you here?” he asked tenderly. “Doesn’t some one love you? You needn’t answer. I know ... so fame isn’t enough,” he dropped her hand almost roughly. “Everything’s in the devil of a mess,” he remarked to no one in particular. Thurley caught the drift of his remark. “It’s the devil of a mess,” she repeated clearly, “because we are not bad enough to be all bad and do terrible things that blot out the hurts or not all good so we can be saints with wings and harps for consolation ... we just struggle—most of us.” “When did you know I was married?” “The night of my début—like a story, isn’t it?” “And we were there—’Raine and I—on our wedding trip.” After three years’ attempt at bravado, the real heart of him was allowed to suffer, suffer as it should have done three years ago instead of fanning revengeful temper on as a worthless substitute. Thurley faced him directly, hugging her long legs under her boy fashion. “I’m not worth it. The best part of me is my voice, Dan. Only the worst part of me isn’t content to have it that way. I’ve worked mighty hard since we said good-by—I’ve known all sorts and conditions of people, great and near great, good and bad—I’ve had all sorts of men make love to me and I’ve encouraged all sorts of men—just so far. I’ve done things no one would approve of my doing and some things that only a few could approve of or understand. Mostly though I’ve worked and worked and I’ve decided that it is either work for me all my days if I’m to keep on singing, or else I’ll stop working and love and be loved, perhaps. But the two do not go hand in hand ... perhaps I’m bitter.” “She made you promise never to marry,” Dan interrupted; “she is a selfish old woman who wasn’t fair!”