She had declared herself, as she had known sooner or later she must, and she had declared on the side of the girl who loved Johnny Everard better than her life. At home Johnny wondered at the change that had come to the two women whom he loved and believed in. It seemed to him that somehow they were antagonistic to him, they seemed to cling together. Ellice deliberately avoided him. When he asked her to go out, as in the old days, she refused, and when he felt hurt Connie sided with her. “Con, what does it mean?” he cried in perplexity. “Nothing. What should it mean?” “But it does. Ellice hardly speaks to me. When I speak to her she just answers. You—you”—he paused—“and you are different even. What have I done?” “You have done nothing—yet, Johnny. It is what you are going to do—that troubles me and makes me anxious.” He stared, open-eyed. “How?” “Your marriage!” “With Joan. You mean that you are against her?” “I am against any woman who would have you for a husband and give you none of her heart,” cried Connie. “Why—why?” he stammered. “Con, you couldn’t expect that Joan would fall in love with a chap like me?” “Then why is she going to marry you? Isn’t marriage a union of love and hearts? Oh, Johnny, I am anxious, very anxious. I hate it, this loveless marriage—” “But I love her!” he said reverently. “Do you—can you go on loving her? Can you? Your own heart starved, can you continue to love and give again and again? No, no, I know better—the time will come when you will realise you have married a cold and beautiful statue, and your heart will wither and shrivel within you, Johnny.” “Con, in time I will make her care for me a little.” “She never will!” “Why?” Connie looked out of the window. “Johnny, dear, if I am saying something that will hurt you, will you forgive me?—knowing that I love you so dearly, that all I want to see is your happiness, that I hate to see you imposed on, made a fool of, made a convenience of!” “Connie, what do you mean?” “I mean that I believe that Joan Meredyth will never love you, because all the heart she has to give has been given to someone else.” “You have no right to say that. What do you know? What can you know?” “I know nothing. I can only guess. I can only stumble and grope in the dark. Think! That woman, lovely, sweet, brilliant, could she accept all that you offer her and give nothing in return if she were heart-free? Wouldn’t your love for her appeal to her, touch her, force some tenderness in response? Oh, I have watched her. I have seen, and I have guessed what I know must—must be true. For she is all woman; she is no cold icicle, but you have not touched her heart, Johnny, and you never will, and so—so, my dear,” Connie’s voice choked with a sob, “you’ll hate me for this—Johnny!” He went to her, put his arm about her, and held her tightly and kissed her. “To prove my hate, dear,” he whispered, and then he went out with a very thoughtful look on his face.