at
meeting the name of Millicent Chyne on the lips of another man. Women
understand these things better than we do. They understand each other,
and they seem to have a practical way of accepting human nature as it is
which we never learn to apply to our fellowmen. They never bluster as we
do, nor expect impossibilities from the frail.

Another somewhat singular residue left, as it were, in Jocelyn's
mind when the storm of emotion had subsided was a certain indefinite
tenderness for Millicent Chyne. She felt sure that Jack Meredith's
feeling for her was that feeling vaguely called the right one, and, as
such, unalterable. To this knowledge the subtle sympathy for Millicent
was perhaps attributable. But navigation with pen and thought among the
shoals and depths of a woman's heart is hazardous and uncertain.

Coupled with this--as only a woman could couple contradictions--was an
unpardoning abhorrence for the deceit practised. But Jocelyn knew the
world well enough to suspect that, if she were ever brought face to
face with her meanness, Millicent would be able to bring about her own
forgiveness. It is the knowledge of this lamentable fact that undermines
the feminine sense of honour.

Lastly, there was a calm acceptance of the fact that Guy Oscard must and
would inevitably go to the wall. There could be no comparison between
the two men. Millicent Chyne could scarcely hesitate for a moment. That
she herself must likewise suffer uncomplainingly, inevitably, seemed to
be an equally natural consequence in Jocelyn Gordon's mind.

She could not go to Jack Meredith and say:

"This woman is deceiving you, but I love you, and my love is a nobler,
grander thing than hers. It is no passing fancy of a giddy, dazzled
girl, but the deep strong passion of a woman almost in the middle of her
life. It is a love so complete, so sufficing, that I know I could make
you forget this girl. I could so envelop you with love, so watch over
you and care for you, and tend you and understand you, that you MUST be
happy. I feel that I could make you happier than any other woman in the
world could make you."

Jocelyn Gordon could not do this; and all the advanced females in the
world, all the blue stockings and divided skirts, all the wild women and
those who pant for burdens other than children, will never bring it to
pass that women can say such things.

And precisely because she could not say this, Jocelyn felt hot and sick
at the very th