Marjorie took another step toward him and her gesture was pleading. “Hugh,” she begged. “I’m humbling myself a great deal! Don’t you think you might unbend a little?” The man’s whole attitude was as forbidding as the wide shoulders he turned from her, and over which he flung his parting words. “It is unnecessary for you to humble yourself at all as far as I am concerned, Marjorie,” was his cold rejoinder. “I might as well tell you I’ve become indifferent to anything you might say or do. You must see that it is impossible for you to rectify the mistakes of years.” No word from Marjorie that both might have made mistakes. For once in her life she was willing to take the blame—willing to admit anything if only—— Her husband had almost reached the door. Marjorie Benton ran across the room after him and clutched at his coat sleeve. “Oh, Hugh, dear, my husband!” she faltered. “Couldn’t we—couldn’t we begin all over again! Oh, say it isn’t too late! Please! I’m so willing to try!” He shook off her detaining hand impatiently. “I’m afraid it is entirely too late,” he answered, in a voice that chilled her to the marrow. “Good-night.” Entering the library fifteen minutes later, Elinor found her mother, a pathetically crushed little heap on her knees in front of the fireplace, her face buried in her hands, her body convulsed with sobs. In a moment she was beside her, her arms about her protectingly. “What is it, mother dear?” she inquired anxiously. “Tell me what has happened.” Marjorie arose staggeringly, hastily dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “Noth—ing,” she stammered, “nothing at all—I’m nervous and overwrought—I——” “You’re never nervous, mother,” Elinor interrupted. “You’re always calm and composed—I’ve never known you to give way like this before.” “I know,” Marjorie replied, trying to regain her self-control. “I’ve never given way so foolishly before. I seemed to be under a tension, and it snapped suddenly.” “But mother,” Elinor persisted, “something must have caused it—won’t you tell me—I’m so sorry.” The mother only shook her head. Sympathetically as it was offered, she strangely found Elinor’s interest unbearable. Unconsciously she harbored the thought that her daughter had been responsible for Hugh’s introduction to the cause of her sorrow and a feeling akin to bitter resentment against even her own daughter rankled in her heart. “I think I will retire, dear,” she sighed, slowly advancing toward the door. “Rest and absolute quiet are what I most require.” “Very well, mother,” Elinor answered indifferently. She was stung to the quick by her mother’s cold repulsion. CHAPTER XI