ers, and some have not survived it. Remember those pitiful,
unaccountable suicides of our bravest and our fairest. In every case
_there was a reason_!

Penelope did not go home after the party, she was in no condition to do
so, but stayed at Roberta's, and I stayed with her, at least I promised
to stay, for I knew she needed me. I knew that the greatest danger was
still threatening her.

When the guests had gone we took off our things (Roberta let me have her
little spare room on the mezzanine floor and she gave Penelope her own
big bedroom with the old French furniture), then a Russian singer, a
tall blond, Margaret G----, came in from the next apartment and we
talked for a long time. Pen and Bobby smoke cigarettes and drank
cordials; they drank in a nervous, hysterical way, as if they felt they
_must_ drink, and, strangely enough, the more they drank the more
intensely sober they became. _I understood this!_

Such talk! Miss Gordon had just returned to America by way of Tokio. She
had been in London, Paris, Petrograd, Cairo; and, everywhere, as a
result of the war, she said, she found a mad carnival of recklessness
and extravagance. Everywhere the old standards of decency and honor had
been set aside, greed and lust were rampant, the whole human race seemed
to be swept as with a mighty tide, by three fierce desires--for money,
for pleasure, for sensuality. And God had been forgotten!

I, who know how hideously true this is, tried to show these women _why_
it is true, especially Penelope, whose eyes were burning dangerously,
but they were not interested in my moralizing. "Let us eat, drink and be
merry, for tomorrow we die," mocked Margaret G----, emptying her glass,
and Roberta joined her, while Penelope hesitated.

"Wait! For God's sake, wait!" I caught the poor child's arm and the
wine spilled over the carpet. Never shall I forget the look in her eyes
as she drew back her head and faced me. I realized that the powers of
evil were striving again for the soul of Penelope Wells. Poor, tortured
child!

"Why shouldn't we eat, drink and be merry?" she demanded boldly, and I
was silent.

How could I explain to this dear, misguided one that, even as those
rollicking words were spoken, I felt the clutch of a cold foreboding
that I know only too well.

_For tomorrow we die!_

The Russian singer presently withdrew as if she were annoyed at
something, saying to Roberta that she would see her later. It seems they
had