ast remark of importance he made. During the few
remaining moments of his visit they spoke of unessentials, and before
she was aware, he had gone away, leaving with her a memorandum of his
address at the time.

* * * * *

She did not sleep that night. When she left the office she brought "The
Last Dryad" home with her, and till far into the night she read it and
re-read it, comparing it and contrasting it with "Patroclus," searching
diligently if perhaps there were not some minute loophole of evasion,
some devious passage through which she might escape. But amid the
shattered panes of her glass pavilion the block of stone persisted,
inert, immovable. The stone could not be raised, the little edifice
could not be rebuilt.

Then at last, inevitably, the temptation came--came and grew and shut
about her and gripped her close. She began to temporize, to advance
excuses. Was not her story the better one? Granted that the idea was the
same, was not the treatment, the presentation, more effective? Should
not the fittest survive? Was it not right that the public should have
the better version? Suppose "Patroclus" had been written by a third
person, and she had been called upon to choose between it and "The Last
Dryad," would she not have taken "Patroclus" and rejected the other? Ah,
but "Patroclus" was not yet written! Well, that was true. But the draft
of it was; the idea of it had been conceived eight months ago. Perhaps
she had thought of her story before Vickers had thought of his. Perhaps?
No; it was very probable; there was no doubt of it, in fact. That was
the important thing: the conception of the idea, not the execution. And
if this was true, her claim was prior.

But what would Conant say of such reasoning, and Trevor--would they
approve? Would they agree?

"Yes, they would," she cried the instant the thought occurred to her.
"Yes, they would, they would, they would; I know they would. I am sure
of it; sure of it."

But she knew they would not. The idea of right persisted and persisted.
Rosella was on the rack, and slowly, inevitably, resistlessly the
temptation grew and gathered, and snared her feet and her hands, and,
fold on fold, lapped around her like a veil.

A great and feminine desire to shift the responsibility began to possess
her mind.

"I cannot help it," she cried. "I am not to blame. It is all very well
to preach, but how would--any one do in my case? It is not my