The man’s face winced for the pain she had to bear. Again she burst out, looking into the mirror, her hair fallen about her strong young breast and shoulders: “You brought this to me, you! Why didn’t something tell me of all that was hidden away in you, all that some day would come out from you and be mine? You did not let me know. Now I cannot get away from it! O my God! Why do you make me live? What right have you to make me live and endure?” He did not resent her bitter reproaches. It was the instinctive recoil of her young body from terrible suffering, the first twitch of the flesh from the knife. There were no tears left in the eyes now; nothing shone there but passion and resentment. “Stay at home? It’s the night of all others I’d go somewhere--get something. No! I won’t give in. I’ll get away from it, forget it, and be happy again. I will--see me do it.... They dine at half-past eight. Have the carriage at eight. I shall be ready.” He walked to and fro in the dressing-room, wishing to say something that could soften her mood. At last he put his hand gently on her beautiful bare shoulders and lowered his face to hers. “We must take this together, love,” he whispered simply. “Don’t speak of it!” she cried, drawing herself from his touch. “Don’t touch me. I shall go mad, mad! You will have two instead of one, then.” [Illustration] V “Your husband seems to be having a good time,” Dr. Vessinger observed, twirling his champagne glass between his strong bony fingers. “Does he often enjoy--these good spirits--this--enthusiasm?” Below them in the main portion of the large dining-room of Mrs. Bellflower’s house, the guests were supping at small tables. Dr. Vessinger had captured one of the few tables in the breakfast room at one side. Simmons was seated next to Mrs. Bellflower. His good-natured, bearded face was thrown back, and his eyes shone with champagne. His wife looked at him with surprise; she had not noticed him before. He was talking a great deal, and repeating what he said to right and left, in a loud voice, with much laughter. She could not hear what he was saying, but she divined that it was silly. “No! I never saw him so--excited, before,” she answered her companion. “He doesn’t usually drink champagne.” “He seems to like it rather well,” the doctor replied, watching him drain a fresh glass. “It’s a good thing to have such good spirits, isn’t it?” He turned his eyes to hers, and raised his glass. “To your beautiful self, Evelyn!” She could feel the warmth of her blood as it rushed over her face and neck, at his deliberate words. “Why do you call me that?” she asked brusquely. “You may remember that I called you that once before,” he replied, unperturbed; “and then you had no objection to my familiarity.”