“Well, I'm sorry for having misunderstood you. I beg your pardon,” said Morland. They took up the conversation from the starting-point, but listlessly, dispiritedly. The reference to Jimmie had awakened the ever-living remorse in Morland's not entirely callous soul. The man did suffer, at times acutely. And now to act the conscious comedy in the face of Norma's expressed abhorrence was a difficult and tiring task. Unwittingly he grew gentler; and Norma, her anger spent, weakly yielded to the change of tone. “We have settled nothing, after all our talk,” he said at last, looking at his watch. “Don't you think we had better fix it up now? Society expects us to get married. What will people say? Come--what about Easter?” Norma passed her hand wearily over her eyes. “I oughtn't to marry you at all. I should loathe it, as I said. I should never get to care for you in that way. You see I am honest. Let us break off the engagement.” “Well, look here,” said Morland, not unkindly, “let us compromise. I'll come back in three days' time. You'll either say it's off altogether or we'll be married at Easter. Will that do?” “Very well,” said Norma. When Mrs. Hardacre came for news of the interview, Norma told her of the arrangement. “Which is it going to be?” she asked. Norma set her teeth. “I can't marry him,” she said. But the proud spirit of Norma Hardacre was broken. The three days' Inferno that Mrs. Hardacre created in the house drove the girl to desperation. Her father came to her one day with the tears running down his puffy cheeks. Unknown to her mother he had borrowed money from Morland, which he had lost on the Stock Exchange. Norma looked in her mirror, and found herself old, ugly, hag-ridden. Anything was preferable to the torture and degradation of her home. The next time that Morland called he stayed to dinner, and the wedding was definitely fixed for Easter. Chapter XIX--ABANA AND PHARPAR Do you know, Miss Hardacre, that I once had a wife?” said Theodore Weever, suddenly. It was after dinner at the Wolff-Salamons', who, it may be remembered, had lent their house to the Hardacres in the summer. “I was not aware of it,” said Norma, wondering at the irrelevance of the remark, for they had just been discussing the great painter's merciless portrait of their hostess, which simpered vulgarly at them from the wall. They were sitting on a sofa in a corner of the room. “Yes,” said Weever. “She died young. She came from a New England village, and played old-fashioned tunes on the piano, and believed in God.”