It had begun with the sly desire to surprise the "boys" some happy day when he could show to them the wife who was his pride. Almost unconsciously he had gone deeper into the mire of circumstances from which he could not now flounder except with sullied honor. Without a thought as to the seriousness of the situation, he had allowed this innocent friend to compromise herself by an almost constant association with him. He had intended telling her the secret when first he met her, exacting a promise to keep it from Converse for a little while, at least. She was to be his confidante, his and Justine's, for he meant to tell her that the brave little woman of Proctor's Falls cherished her as ideal, unknown but loved. Celeste had unconsciously baffled all these good intentions, building a wall about the truth so strong that it could not break through. It went on, this sweet comradeship, until he--a married man--was looked upon by outsiders as the man to whom this unattainable girl had given her love. Converse's blunt assertion had given him the first inkling of the consequences the intimacy had engendered. Worse than all else, he now realized how dear Celeste Wood had become to him. On one hand, Justine was his ideal; on the other hand, Celeste was an ideal. It seemed to him as he rode in a hansom to the North Side the next night after his talk with Converse that he could not bear to lose one more than the other. Both were made for him to adore. He faltered as he mounted the steps at the Wood home. At the top he turned and looked out over the lake. A wild desire to rush down and throw himself over the sea-wall into the dark, slashing waters came upon him. To go inside meant the end of happiness so far as Celeste Wood was concerned; to turn away would mean the end of his honor and his conscience. As he stood debating she opened the door and he was trapped. A dazzling light shone in upon his darkness and he staggered forward deeper into its warm radiance, conscious only that a deadly chill had been cast off and that he was in the glow of her smile. In the dimly lighted hall, red and seductive from the swinging lantern with its antique trappings and scarlet eyes, he removed his overcoat and threw it, with his hat, upon the Flemish chair. Slim, sweet and graceful, she looked up into his somber face. There was a quizzical smile on hers. And now, for the first time, he saw more than friendship in those violet eyes. Plain, too plain, was the glint that brightened the dark pupils; too plain were the roses in her cheeks. "I know you appear very distinguished and important when you wear that expression, but I'd much rather see you smile," she said, gaily. "Smiles are too expensive, sometimes," he said, without knowing what he uttered. "I'll buy them at your own price," she laughed, but a shade of anxiety crossed her face.