Suddenly Dodo comprehended. She caught the woman in indignant revolt. "Not you, Snyder! Never you!" "Oh, yes--me more than the rest," said Snyder heavily. "Oh, no, no! Never!" "What's the use of fooling ourselves?" said Snyder stubbornly. "You've found yourself--you've started a real life--Thank God. I've got no place in it." As Dodo emotionally stricken started to protest she shook her head, smiling a strange smile, taking up doggedly. "Let's be honest. See here--it is a queer world. We bumped against each other going through it--God knows how--you've been square to me and I've been square to you. Lord, that's enough. Precious lot more than most people can say." She stopped, locked her hands convulsively and avoided Dodo's eyes. "Well, your train has got to go one way--mine another. That's all. Here, give me your hand. We're not going to fool ourselves or each other. You know what's got to be. Good-by--good luck." "Oh, Snyder, it's too cruel, life is too cruel!" said Dodo, her eyes blinded, her throat choking. "You see," said Snyder, forcing a smile, "even you know what I say is right." "No--no, I didn't mean it that way," said Dodo indignantly, but she stopped short, struck with the truth of it all. "I know you didn't," said Snyder, fist to her eyes. "Hell, am I going to get sentimental?" Suddenly she took Dodo's hand, muttered something incoherent and raised it to her lips. Then she broke from the weeping woman and went hastily to the door. "Remember," she said, "don't you flinch--don't you--" Suddenly she stopped, caught her throat and went out with a last feeble wave of her hand. Dodo sank down, overcome with loneliness and the melancholy of other existences. She had come indeed to set the seal on the past, to tie up old bundles, old memories, sweet and sad, regrets and failures; to arrange them into compact moral bundles, to be placed carefully on the shelves of oblivion, but she had not contemplated eliminating Snyder. Yet the pitiless verity had penetrated and convinced her. Nothing of the old life could travel with her into the new. When she had recovered herself she went rapidly to the narrow window and flung down the shade to blot out the impending side of brick. She threw open the trunk and the little bureau where Snyder had religiously guarded her things. There were a hundred reminders of the old life, scrawled notes from forgotten props, the card of Sassoon's with the scribbled entreaty to see him for a short time, typewritten business letters from Mr. Peavey, a confidential note from Harrigan Blood--a tintype she once had had taken with Nebbins at a Sunday picnic--a photograph of Blainey looking uncomfortably posed, scores of cards which had accompanied flowers, Christmas offerings, pawn-tickets, birthday presents, what not, and in a separate packet done round with red ribbon, all that Judge Massingale had written her, beginning with that first miserable apology. "_Dear Miss Baxter_: