ly.
After that they did not again look into each other's faces; no
good-morning had passed between them since both sensed that any time for
empty civilities had gone. There could be no conventional pretence at
harmony even in small things; they must be in each other's arms or
worlds apart.

Out of a night's grappling with chimeras, King had come to one and only
one determination: he would go slowly, he would hold an iron check upon
himself, he would throttle down a temper which more than once in his
life, at moments of tempest, had blazed out uncontrollably. He would
smother within himself that passion which in forthright men is so prone
to burst into violence. Were Gloria to show herself to be this or that,
were she to say this word or another, he would speak with her coolly, he
would listen to her calmly, and in the end, since judge he must, he
would judge with his heart ordered to beat steadily and not with a wild
rush of blood. He had set a guard in his own breast as he might have set
a guard over a camp of treacherous enemies.

Yet, from the outset, nothing was more unlikely than that these two
should advance by smooth paths to a clear and utter understanding. His
one glimpse of her face dethroned his cold logic and moved him very
deeply; she was so white, so pitifully sad-looking. She, too, had
suffered; God knew that she had battled through hours of anguish. He
wanted her in his arms; he wanted to batter at the world with his fists
to save her from its flings of grief and pain. He bit savagely at his
lip and turned away. And she, seeing his haggard eyes, his drawn face,
knew that she had been unjust last night when she had hated him for
seeming a soulless man, who could smoke his pipe in all serenity and
feel nothing of the unhappiness of the night. He did not look like the
Mark King of yesterday; the glad gleam of joy had died in his eyes; the
quick resiliency had gone out of his step. He, too, had lived through
slow hours of torture. He did love her--she could never doubt that----

Had he suddenly caught her to him then, had he crushed her close in his
arms, had he cried out in headlong passion that she _must_ love him,
that he would make her love him, that she was his, that he would not
give her up--would she have wrenched away from him, hot with anger--or
would she have crept close and known at last whether or not she loved
him? But here was something else she could not know; he turned and went
off for his