's sobbed and hazy version of the
story; she herself could not remember clearly now; the impressions of
the last few hours had been so intense as to obliterate much of what
had gone before. "I thought I would drown myself ... but the water was
so black. Oh, why did you take me to that dreadful woman? Did you hear
what she said? It wasn't true, was it? Oh, it can't be!"

"It was quite true, Ephie. What he told YOU wasn't true. He never
really cared for anyone but her. They were--were engaged for years."

At this, she wept so heart-rendingly that he was afraid Frau Krause
would come in and interfere.

"You MUST control yourself. Crying won't alter things now. If you had
been frank and candid with us, it would never have happened." This was
the only reproach he could make her; what came after was Johanna's
business, not his. "And now I'm going to take you home. It's nearly
twelve o'clock. Think of the state your mother and sister will be in
about you."

But at the mention of Johanna, Ephie flung herself on the sofa again
and beat the cushions with her hands.

"Not Joan, not Joan!" she wailed. "No, I won't go home. What will she
say to me? Oh, I am so frightened! She'll kill me, I know she will."
And at Maurice's confident assurance that Johanna would have nothing
but love and sympathy for her, she shook her head. "I know Joan. She'll
never forgive me. Morry, let me stay with you. You've always been kind
to me. Oh, don't send me away!"

"Don't be a silly child, Ephie. You know yourself you can't stay here."

But he gave up urging her, coaxed her to lie down, and sat beside her,
stroking her hair. As he said no more, she gradually ceased to sob, and
in what seemed to the young man an incredibly short time, he heard from
her breathing that she was asleep. He covered her up, and stood a sheet
of music before the lamp, to shade her eyes. In the passage he ran up
against Frau Krause, whom he charged to prevent Ephie in the event of
her attempting to leave the house.

Buttoning up his coat-collar, he hastened through the mistlike rain to
fetch Johanna.

There was a light in every window of the PENSION in the LESSINGSTRASSE;
the street-door and both doors of the flat stood open. As he mounted
the stairs a confused sound of voices struck his car; and when he
entered the passage, he heard Mrs. Cayhill crying noisily. Johanna came
out to him at once; she was in hat and cloak. She listened stonily to
his statement that Ephi