ly,
anyhow--whether one is around or not. To have all my responsibilities
taken away at once, and just to drift around, like this--oh, it's
dreadful."

"You were going to be good," I reminded her.

"I didn't promise to be cheerful," she returned. "Besides my father,
there was only one person in the world who cared about me, and I don't
know where she is. Dear Aunt Jane!"

The sunlight caught the ring on her engagement finger, and she flushed
suddenly as she saw me looking at it. We sat there for a while saying
nothing; the long May afternoon was coming to a close. The paths began
to fill with long lines of hurrying home-seekers, their day in office or
factory at an end.

Margery got up at last and buttoned her coat. Then impulsively she held
out her hand to me.

"You have been more than kind to me," she said hurriedly. "You have
taken me into your home--and helped me through these dreadful days--and
I will never forget it; never."

"I am not virtuous," I replied, looking down at her. "I couldn't help
it. You walked into my life when you came to my office--was it only last
week? The evil days are coming, I suppose, but just now nothing matters
at all, save that you are you, and I am I."

She dropped her veil quickly, and we went back to the car. The prosaic
world wrapped us around again; there was a heavy odor of restaurant
coffee in the air; people bumped and jolted past us. To me they were
only shadows; the real world was a girl in black and myself, and the
girl wore a betrothal ring which was not mine.

CHAPTER XV

FIND THE WOMAN

Mrs. Butler came down to dinner that night. She was more cheerful than I
had yet seen her, and she had changed her mournful garments to something
a trifle less depressing. With her masses of fair hair dressed high, and
her face slightly animated, I realized what I had not done before--that
she was the wreck of a very beautiful woman. Frail as she was, almost
shrinkingly timid in her manner, there were times when she drew up her
tall figure in something like its former stateliness. She had beautiful
eyebrows, nearly black and perfectly penciled; they were almost
incongruous in her colorless face.

She was very weak; she used a cane when she walked, and after dinner, in
the library, she was content to sit impassive, detached, propped with
cushions, while Margery read to the boys in their night nursery and
Edith embroidered.

Fred had been fussing over a play for some t