“A strong character, you mean?” “Ye-es—you might put it that way.” “She loves my husband.” “Mrs. West!” “Oh, of course that’s an extraordinary thing for me to say to anybody, especially to you, who I don’t really know. But I must speak to someone, and I’ve no relations and no real friend—unless you’ll be one.” Maddison left the easel, and went across the room to where she was standing by the window. “Mrs. West, take my advice: don’t tell me any more, and don’t ask me anything. I—don’t see how—I know that I can’t help you——” “You won’t help me?” she asked, disappointment in her tone. “You won’t? I—thought you would.” “Not won’t—_can’t_.” “How can you tell? I’ve not really told you anything yet.” “You’ve told me enough for me to be able, more or less, to guess the rest—and I’m sure that there is only one person in the world that can really help you—you must help yourself.” “That’s so easy to say. I don’t know how. I don’t know how.” She sank down upon the window seat, burying her face in her hands, and sobbing in a quiet, childish fashion. Intense pity for this helpless, weak woman touched him, but he knew that her only real chance of salvation in this world was for her to find herself through suffering, and that if she continued to depend upon any other for support, she would never be strong enough to stand alone. He did not speak until she raised her face, and her sobbing had almost died away. “Of course you will think me very hard-hearted and brutal, Mrs. West,” he said, “but I must risk that. If things are going wrong, you must help yourself. The only thing I can do is to tell you that from what I know of your husband, he would love his wife to be as strong and self-dependent as himself. Now, please go back to your chair, and sit as you were at first.” His heart was full of sympathy for the weak, little woman, so pretty, so vain, so helpless. There was little chance, he felt sure, that she would ever develop into strength, or that she would retain her husband’s affection, if Alice Lane—quiet, determined, and very passionate as he believed her to be—were bent on winning it. West’s restless manner and talk had shown that something was amiss. The old story—the vessel of porcelain and the vessel of iron. She a joy to him so long as she continued to amuse and please, but thrown aside broken, when her charm had gone. Maddison had foreseen some such event as this, but had not thought that she would suffer greatly, or at any rate, for a length of time, taking her to be one who would be content with luxuries and pretty things. But he realized now that there was a depth of affection in her, childish perhaps, but none the less deep, which might lead to tragedy, if West turned her out of his life. But he knew that he was helpless to assist: West was masterful and ruthless; the pity of it was that he had been so blind as not to see that this simple child could not long content him.