“Don’t you know I hate the mere thought of it? But, George, I won’t sacrifice the future to the present, as you’re so ready to do. It isn’t as if you were going millions of miles away. You can easily run up to town every now and then—you needn’t go near the studio, just stop here a night or two. I can run down to Brighton. You mustn’t be obstinate.” “I shall hate it.” “So shall I!” she exclaimed, jumping up, “so shall I. But it’s the best way. Do you love me so little, George, that you don’t know that I’m only thinking of how we can be happiest in the end? We must buy the future at the expense of the present.” Then, sitting on his knees, she took his face between her warm hands, looked into his eyes, slowly put her lips to his, slowly kissed him. “You witch!” he said. “You always have your own way!” “How untrue! But, George,” she added quickly, laying her head on his shoulder, “don’t misunderstand me, _don’t_. I want you, want you always, and I shall be miserable while you are away. I shall just count the days. But you’ll come up to see me and I’ll come down to see you; it might be worse. And how lovely it’ll be when you come back.” Maddison was dining out that night, and she made him resist the sudden temptation to telegraph to his hostess, pleading illness as an excuse for not keeping his engagement. They talked on until at the last he was compelled to hurry off, the leave-taking abruptly ended by her laughingly pushing him out. Then she danced back to the drawing room, overjoyed that fate had played so well into her hands, offering her the opportunity for which she had been longing, of being free upon occasion to go whither she liked and to do what she willed. “If only all men were as easy to fool!” she thought; “perhaps they are, when one knows them and they don’t know us.” She picked up her hat which she had flung on the sofa, and pinned it on quickly. Then she went out, closing the hall door quietly behind her, but instead of going down, ran upstairs to the top floor, where Ethel Harding lived, as she said, nearer heaven in this world than she was likely to be in the next. “Hullo, it’s you!” she said, answering herself to Marian’s ring. “Come along in. The girl’s out and I’m all alone and lonely.” She led the way into a small sitting room, comfortably but somewhat gaudily furnished and decorated; a bright fire burned in the small grate; an incandescent gas light glared on each side of the overmantel; on the round table in the center were a dilapidated flower in a crimson pot; an ash tray, full to overflowing with cigarette ends and ashes; and, on a dirty cheap Japanese tray, a half-empty siphon of soda water, a bottle of brandy three parts full, and a tumbler. “I’m in an awful mess, I always am!” Mrs. Harding exclaimed, as she picked a newspaper and a novel out of an armchair and flung them on the sofa. “There, do sit down. Look at me too, but this old tea gown is comfy. I hope you’ve had your tea?—Eh?” “Just finished it.”