h she did not underestimate. His
presence would mean comparison; contrast between drab reality and
rainbow longings.

But how could she hint any of these things to the husband who, by his
very invitation, was proving his complete trust, or the lover to whom
she must seem the confidently happy wife?

"I'm sure Conscience joins me in insisting that you come," went on Mr.
Tollman persuasively. "You can wear a flannel shirt and do as you like
because we are informal folk--and you would be a member of the family."

That was rather a long speech for Eben Tollman, and as he finished
Conscience felt the glances of both men upon her, awaiting her
confirmation.

She smiled and Stuart detected no flaw in the seeming genuineness of her
cordiality.

"We _know_ he likes the place," she announced in tones of whimsical
bantering, "and if he refuses it must mean that he doesn't think much of
the people."

Stuart was so entirely beguiled that his reply came with instant
repudiation of such a construction.

"When to-morrow's train arrives," he declared, "I will be a passenger,
unless an indignant audience lynches me to-night."

They had meant to meet surreptitiously, mused Eben Tollman, and being
thwarted, they had juggled their conversation into an exaggeration of
innocence. Conscience's face during that first unguarded moment in the
dining-room had mirrored a terror which could have had no other origin
than a guilty love. His own course of conduct was clear. He must, no
matter how it tried his soul, conceal every intimation of suspicion. The
geniality which had astonished them both must continue with a convincing
semblance of genuineness. Out of a pathetic blindness of attitude he
must see, eagle-eyed.

But Conscience, as they drove homeward, was reflecting upon the frequent
miscarriage of kindness. Her husband had planned for her a delightful
surprise and his well-meaning gift had been--a crisis.

Stuart sat that night in the gallery of the Garrick theater with
emotions strangely confused.

Below him and about him was such an audience as characterizes those
towns which are frequently used as experimental stations for the drama.
It regarded itself as sophisticated in matters theatrical and was keenly
alive to the fact that it sat as a jury which must not be too
provincially ready of praise.

Yet the author, hiding there beyond reach of the genial Grady, and the
possibility of a curtain call, was not thinking solely of hi