His determined tone put a stop to her spirit of rebelliousness. Passively she got into the cab and sat silent in its obscurity. When it stopped Chalfont opened his door with a latchkey. His servants had gone to bed, but in the room where Maggy had breakfasted with him there were sandwiches and consommé. He helped her to some of this, and she, beyond resistance now, took it. Then she shrank into the depths of the big chair which he had drawn up to the fire for her. She was unconscious of the tears of weakness that were welling from her eyes. Her hair had come down and was tumbled over her shoulders. Emotion had played havoc with her face. Chalfont, watching her, was stirred by feelings that had their birth in pity. If they were gathering force, changing into others more personal, more tender, there was nothing of disloyalty to the memory of the dead woman on whom he had once lavished great affection. "Maggy," he said quietly, "he has left you." She lifted heavy eyes. "How—how did you know?" "I thought it would come." A dry sob broke from her. Then she said: "He really was on his honeymoon.... Did you know?" "No. But a few days ago I heard something.... I knew he was very thick with Cantire. I saw it coming." "Why didn’t you tell me?" "How could I?" "No; I see.... I had to find out for myself.... Well, it’s finished now." She stared blankly in front of her. "Do you care so terribly?" he asked, after a pause. She shook her head. "That’s dead, I think. Everything’s dead except myself, and I want to be. I can’t stand it: the hardness—and the loneliness." "I thought you were brave." "Not when I don’t want to be." "I’m lonely too," he said; "but I haven’t turned my back on life, partly because your advice helped me when I was feeling very down. Don’t you think suicide is rather a craven thing?" "Perhaps.... I shall have to go on living now, I suppose," she admitted dully. "Oh, damn that policeman! I should have been pulp by this time! That’s the second failure. I took laudanum this afternoon, and was only sick." Chalfont went over to her chair, sat on its arm-rest and took one of her hands. "Don’t you think we have something in common?" he said, and waited for a reply that should warrant him speaking more definitely. She rested her head against his shoulder like one who is spent. "You make me feel peaceful," she murmured. "I wish you would give me some poison and let me die while you held me." "You tragic person!" He tried to speak lightly. "You’ll laugh at yourself, later on.... I want you to live." "I’ll live," she consented. "It’s only a matter of breathing." "You must promise me that—and something else." "All right. What’s the else?" Her voice was unutterably tired. "Everything, in effect. I’m not good at explaining, but, first of all, I want you to understand that I honor you." Maggy sat bolt upright. Two fierce spots of color came into her cheeks.