"So, after all, I am going to marry--like all the rest!" she said, suddenly roused. This one word--"marriage"--pierced through all the fancied illusions. Marriage--one man; nothing but one man every day, year in and year out--was it possible? Could she resign herself? No more excitement, no more gambling with opportunity, no more dramatizing herself to each new situation, no more luring and evasion, no more sporting with dull brute strength or matching of wits--nothing but the expected, the routine--yes, the inevitable commonplace? Could she give this up--so soon? She rose fiercely against the sacrifice. Never! She preferred her youth. All at once a sound broke across the hot flights of her conflicting fancies. She sat up instantly, bending forward, listening. She had heard a sob, muffled but unmistakable, from the adjoining room--then another. She slipped quickly to the floor. Snyder too had risen. "Be quiet, Snyder. Let me go," she said to her in a whisper, forcing her back. She felt her way to the door, and opening it quietly, passed into Winona's room. "Who's that?" asked a frightened voice. "Hush! It's I--Dodo. I heard you," she said, groping. "What's wrong, Winona?" But the figure in the bed, without answer, buried itself face down in the covers, striving to choke back the sobs. Doré put her arm about her, endeavoring to calm her, wondering and a little apprehensive. "But this is frightful! Winona, you mustn't!" she said helplessly. "Winona, can't you tell me? Can't you speak?" The girl grasped her hand, pressing it convulsively. Doré waited, seized by the mystery of the heavy night, the stillness and the little animal sound of sorrow. Between Salamanders real confidences are rare. What did she know of this life which only a wall divided from her? A suspicion flashed into her mind, knowing the perilous ways that sometimes had to be run. All at once she remembered. "Winona!" she cried joyfully. "What a fool I am! I've good news! It's all settled--Blainey to-morrow!" And as the girl, buried in her pillow, continued to struggle against the sobs, she shook her by the shoulder, repeating: "Blainey wants to see you; he's giving you a chance. Do you hear?" "Chance! Ah, I've had a thousand chances! What's the use!" exclaimed the girl, twisting in the bed. "It's always the same! Don't I know it--know it!" "But you won't throw away this one?" "Chance! Yes, that's all it is--chance!" she cried uncontrollably. "If I wasn't such a fool! What's the use of trying, anyhow? It don't make any difference. Nothing ever does! Ah, I'll give up. I'll go back!" She continued, repeating herself endlessly, beating the pillow with her fist; and as she abandoned herself to despair, old errors of speech, forgotten accents, mingled in her cries. "It ain't right! No, it ain't right--nothing ever comes of nothing! Nothing works out--nothing! Ah, no! I'll go back--I'll go back--I'll go back to it!" "What do you mean? Back to what?"