One afternoon in October he had stopped in at the Newbury house to pay one of those brief visits which had replaced the long stolen interviews of the past. He had met Newbury down town in the morning and been told that Lupé was not feeling well. She had lately suffered from headaches, an unknown ailment for her. Newbury was worried; he wanted her to have the doctor, for she really looked bad and seemed very much out of spirits. Jerry found her looking exceedingly white and very quiet. She had evidently been ill and showed the marks of suffering. He was relieved to see that she was in a fairly tranquil state of mind, with no intention of making a scene. In fact, to his secret joy he found that he could keep the conversation on the impersonal, society plane upon which he had often before attempted to maintain it, invariably without success. But Lupé to-day had evidently no spirit to quarrel or to weep. She sat in a large arm-chair in an attitude of listless weariness, her skin looking whiter, her hair and eyes blacker than usual. She had lost in weight and though in her thirty-seventh year was as handsome as she had ever been. Jerry kept one eye on the clock. If he could get away early enough he was going to see a new horse Black Dan had just given Mercedes. A year of practice had made him very expert in bringing interviews with Lupé to an abrupt end, leaving her too quickly to give her time to change from the serenity of general conversation to the hysterical note of rage and grievance. “Well, Lupé,” he said, rising and going to her side, “I must be going. I’m glad you’re so much better. You ought to take more exercise.” He took her hand and smiling down at her pressed it. She looked at him with her somber eyes, large and melancholy in their darkened sockets. The look was tragic and with alarm he attempted to draw his hand away. But she held it, drew it against her bosom, and bowed her face on his arm. “Oh, Jerry,” she almost groaned, “is this you and I?” “Of course, dear,” he said glibly, patting her lightly on the shoulder with his free hand. “You’ll be all right soon if you’ll take more exercise. You’re just a little bit inclined to the lazy--all you Spanish women are.” She made no answer and he could feel her body trembling. “Come, Lupé,” he said with a touch of urgency in his voice, “I must go, my dear girl. I’ve got something to do at half-past four.” “Are you going to Miss Gracey’s?” she said without moving or loosening her hold of his hand. “Oh, Lupé, dear,” he answered impatiently, “don’t let’s get on those subjects to-day. I’ve had such a nice time here with you this afternoon, just because you’ve been pleasant, and quiet and reasonable. Now don’t spoil it all by beginning to fight and find fault.” She raised her head but still held his hand pressed against her heart. “I’m not going to fight,” she said in a low tone, “my fighting days are over.”