point to me is, of course, that you should be doing what's
really best for you."

She sat silent, with lowered lashes. At length she stretched out her arm
and took up from the table a little threadbare Chinese hand-screen. She
turned its ebony stem once or twice between her fingers, and as she did
so Darrow was whimsically struck by the way in which their evanescent
slight romance was symbolized by the fading lines on the frail silk.

"Do you think my engagement to Mr. Leath not really best for me?" she
asked at length.

Darrow, before answering, waited long enough to get his words into the
tersest shape--not without a sense, as he did so, of his likeness to the
surgeon deliberately poising his lancet for a clean incision. "I'm not
sure," he replied, "of its being the best thing for either of you."

She took the stroke steadily, but a faint red swept her face like the
reflection of a blush. She continued to keep her lowered eyes on the
screen.

"From whose point of view do you speak?"

"Naturally, that of the persons most concerned."

"From Owen's, then, of course? You don't think me a good match for him?"

"From yours, first of all. I don't think him a good match for you."

He brought the answer out abruptly, his eyes on her face. It had grown
extremely pale, but as the meaning of his words shaped itself in her
mind he saw a curious inner light dawn through her set look. She lifted
her lids just far enough for a veiled glance at him, and a smile slipped
through them to her trembling lips. For a moment the change merely
bewildered him; then it pulled him up with a sharp jerk of apprehension.

"I don't think him a good match for you," he stammered, groping for the
lost thread of his words.

She threw a vague look about the chilly rain-dimmed room. "And you've
brought me here to tell me why?"

The question roused him to the sense that their minutes were numbered,
and that if he did not immediately get to his point there might be no
other chance of making it.

"My chief reason is that I believe he's too young and inexperienced to
give you the kind of support you need."

At his words her face changed again, freezing to a tragic coldness. She
stared straight ahead of her, perceptibly struggling with the tremor of
her muscles; and when she had controlled it she flung out a pale-lipped
pleasantry. "But you see I've always had to support myself!"

"He's a boy," Darrow pushed on, "a charming, wonderful boy; but