“So did I. This is my punishment. After you had gone, I could have torn my heart out. I went on the drink--could n’t get engagements--went downhill. I can’t go much lower, can I? If you want revenge, you ’ve got it.” She tossed her head in her old, defiant way. Joyce, perceiving her association of himself in her downfall, felt somewhat moved with pity. “God knows, revenge is the last thing I want. On the contrary, I am distressed to see you come to this. If I could help you, I would do so. But that, you know as well as I, is out of my power.” “Yes; the only thing you could do, would be to marry me and make an honest woman of me, and that is n’t likely,” she said, cynically. “No, it is n’t likely,” said Joyce. “I can only be deeply sorry for you.” “I wonder whether you could tell what it is to me to talk to you even in this way. Oh, God! if you knew how I longed to see you!” “Why did you act as you did toward me?” he asked. “I don’t know. Don’t ask me. Because every woman’s got a tiger in her somewhere, I suppose. I used to think men were the brutes. Now I know it’s women. We’re all the same. I hate myself. I wish you would take me up a back street and kill me. This is a hell of a life. Do you remember the last words you said to me? ‘Some people are better dead.’ It’s the truest thing I ’ve ever heard from man or woman.” “It’s easy enough to get out of the world, if we want to,” said Joyce. “But perhaps it’s better to fight it out. You must make an effort and get out of this life--a proud girl like you.” “I have n’t much pride left.” “I thought so too. But it takes a lot of killing. I ’ve come out fairly straight. Why shouldn’t you?” “I ’ll come out straight, the only way--a corpse. But I’m glad things are better with you. It relieves me to know it. I thought I had sent you to the devil, and that’s why I went there myself, I suppose. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I know you hate being seen with me.” “Can’t I do anything for you?” said Joyce, feeling in his pocket. “Yes--flay me alive by offering me money. You did once--do you remember?” She stopped abruptly, took Joyce’s proffered hand, and said in a softer voice:-- “It’s good of you to shake hands with me. Men are better than women. Thank God I ’ve seen you at last. Good-bye.” “Good-bye,” said Joyce, kindly. They parted, and went their different ways, Annie Stevens to the horror of her life and Joyce to the home that held Yvonne. The parallel and the contrast smote him as he walked along the familiar street. Both himself and this girl that had fallen were derelicts, both were expiating the past, both were carrying within them a degraded self, that with a nobler self waged cruel and eternal warfare. For the injury she had done him he cherished no resentment. He felt a great pity for her, and judged her gently.