There was some hope for Peter. It is so much easier to cure blindness than vision. Always she must see the light that had leaped to Monte's eyes, kindled from the fire in her own soul. Always she must see him coming to her outstretched arms, knowing that she had lost the right to lift her arms. Perhaps she must even see him going to other arms, that flame born of her breathed into fuller life by other lips. If not--then the ultimate curse of watching him remain just Monte, knowing he might have been so much more. This because she had dared trifle with that holy passion and so had made herself unworthy of it. Peter was telling her of his work; of what he had accomplished already and of what he hoped to accomplish. She heard him as from a distance, and answered mechanically his questions, while she pursued her own thoughts. It seemed almost as if a woman was not allowed to remain negative; that either she must accomplish positive good or positive harm. So far, she had accomplished only harm; and now here was an opportunity that was almost an obligation to offset that to some degree. She must free Monte as soon as possible. That was necessary in any event. She owed it to him. It was a sacred obligation that she must pay to save even the frayed remnant of her pride. This had nothing to do with Peter. She saw now it would have been necessary just the same, even if Peter had not come to make it clearer. Until she gave up the name to which she had no right, with which she had so shamelessly trifled, she must feel only glad that Peter could not see into her eyes. So Monte would go on his way again, and she would be left--she and Peter. If, then, what Beatrice said was true,--if it was within her power, at no matter what sacrifice, to give Peter back the sight she had taken,--then so she might undo some of the wrong she had done. The bigger the sacrifice, the fiercer the fire might rage to burn her clean. Because she had thought to sacrifice nothing, she had been forced to sacrifice everything; if now she sacrificed everything, perhaps she could get back a little peace in return. She would give her life to Peter--give him everything that was left in her to give. Humbly she would serve him and nurse the light back into his eyes. Was it possible to do this? She saw Beatrice at the door, and rose to meet her. "You're to lunch with me," she said. "Then, for dinner, Mr. Covington has asked us all to join him." "Covington?" exclaimed Peter. "Is n't he the man who was so decent to me this morning?" "He said he met you," answered Marjory. "I liked him," declared Peter. "I'll be mighty glad to see more of him." "And I too," nodded Beatrice. "He looked so very romantic with his injured arm." "Monte romantic?" smiled Marjory. "That's the one thing in the world he is n't." "Just who is he, anyway?" inquired Beatrice. "He's just Monte," answered Marjory.