Her face seemed strange, transformed by the force of an irresistible, a final compulsion. I writhed under her gaze as one on a rack. She hung for a moment, her eyes glittering into mine, positively tremulous; I had never seen Gertrude so serious. I could not bear it. It was excruciating. I know Gertrude was not herself. I leaped from the sofa, her hand still clinging to mine. "I can’t—I can’t, Gertrude," I whispered hoarsely. "Oh—I—wish—but I am horribly sorry—I can’t!" Gertrude’s nerves are strong and her control over them is stronger. She gazed at me for an instant, intently, searchingly, dropped my hand and turned away. "There is some one else," she murmured in level tones to herself; "there is some one else now." "Yes," I breathed, "though it won’t—it can’t—" and I paused. "You needn’t tell me," she turned, smiling harshly. "I know—it’s that girl—the gutter-sni—but it doesn’t matter. Every man is a fool—and you are the least likely to prove an exception. Oh, I always knew that—felt it—but never mind. I can’t humiliate myself any more, can I?—Ranny," her voice suddenly struck a quieter note. "One thing I must ask for our old friendship’s sake: You will forget this—episode—will you not? And I shall try to." "My dear Gertrude—" I threw out my hands in a gesture of helplessness. If there was any humiliation it was I who was suffering it. She looked at me calmly, stonily. The color in her cheeks was exactly the same as before. Had Gertrude stooped to rouge? "Your dear Gertrude—yes; then that’s all right. Have a drink before you go? No? Very well. You will remember some day that I have given you my best—done my best for you." It seems inherent in the nature of woman, so cosmic is the sweep of her outlook, or else so near to the earth, that when her desires are frustrated she feels the laws of the universe are frustrated. I did not make this comment to Gertrude, however; I could only murmur an entreaty for her forgiveness—which she ignored. Her only answer was a brief hard gesture of the head, a sort of jerk that expressed at once futility, contempt and dismissal. As one dazed and paralyzed I must have made my way somehow downstairs, into a street car or some other conveyance at Fourth Avenue and into the babel at Grand Central station. But of this I have no recollection whatsoever. It is a blank. I must have walked like a somnambulist. I never came to until I left the train at Crestlands about a quarter past nine, and the first thing I was conscious of was the pain I must have inflicted. *CHAPTER XVIII* I can write this almost calmly now because so much has passed since that dreadful evening and details begin to emerge cloudily from the fog of that confusion.