er Randy had gone George Dalton walked the floor. He knew innocence
when he saw it, and he knew that Randy had told the truth. Becky
Bannister was as white as the doves that were fluttering down to the
garden pool to drink. He had never cared particularly for innocence.
But he cared for Becky. He knew now that he cared tremendously. Randy
had made him know it. It had not seemed so bad to think of Becky as
breaking her heart and waiting for a word from him. It seemed very bad,
indeed, when he thought of her as married to Randy.

He felt that, of course, she did not love Randy; that he,
Georgie-Porgie, had all that she had to give---- But woman-like, she had
taken this way to get back at him. He wondered if she had sent Randy.

Up and down the terrace he raged like a lion. He wanted to show that
cub--oh, if he might show him----!

Randy had known that he would rage, and as he rode home he had the
serene feeling that he had stuck a splinter in George's flesh.

Oscar Waterman joined George on the terrace, but noticed nothing. His
mind was full of Flora. "I am sorry young Paine went so soon. I wanted
to thank him. Flora can't eat the jelly, but it was good of them to send
it. She can't eat anything. She's worse, George. I don't know how I am
going to stand it."

George was in no mood for condolence. Yet he was not quite heartless.
"Look here," he said, "you mustn't give up."

"George, if she dies," Oscar said, wildly, "what do you think will
happen to me? I never planned for this. I planned for a good time. I
thought maybe that when we were old--one of us might go. But it wouldn't
be fair to take her now--and leave me."

"I have given her--everything----" he went on. "I--I think I've been a
good husband. I have always loved her a lot, George, you know that."

He was a plain little man, but at this moment he gained something of
dignity. And there was this to say for him, that what he felt for Flora
was a deeper emotion than George had ever known.

"The doctor says the crisis comes to-night. I am not going to bed. I
couldn't sleep. George--I've been wondering if I oughtn't to call
in--some kind of clergyman--to see her."

"People don't, nowadays, do they?" George asked rather uncomfortably.

"Well, I don't see why they shouldn't. There ought to be somebody to
pray for Flora."

There was, it developed upon inquiry, a little old rector who lived not
far away. George went for him in his big car.

The little man, pr