rstand, she had ceased to expect that of him--but he would
know--in some dull, stern way he would see--he would see. She caught
sight of her face in the little mirror of the brougham and lowered her
veil. Ah, it was a bitter, barren thing, this striving, striving,
endlessly striving to be understood. She had endured it for four years
and she was worn heartsick with the strain. Her soul cried out for
warmth, for life, for breathing room; was not one's first duty to
one's self after all? She turned suddenly--Jules stood by the open
door.

"Jules," she said, summoning a little severity of manner to
counterbalance the tremor in her voice, "you need not come back for
me. Jules," she added, turning again, "good-by--you have--you have
been very faithful."

The man touched his hat gravely and stood like a sentinel till she had
passed from sight among the trees.

It was late in November, and the maple boughs were a riot of red and
gold. The sky beyond them looked pale and far away, as though a white
veil had been drawn across its tender southern blue. She rejoiced now
that she had elected to spend this last hour in the frosty outdoor
gladness. With a little impulse of relief, she flung back her veil and
drew a deep breath. Then she locked her hands inside her muff and
began to walk briskly.

At the park's further end there was a bench, inside a sort of roofless
summerhouse, where on warm days the fountain played in a rainbow. She
knew the place well--she had sat there many times--with him and with
another---she would go there now and think her own thoughts. It was
hidden from the driveways, and the place was sweet with memories which
need not goad and pain her. She remembered the last time she had sat
there. It came back to her now with a sudden vividness. It was the day
she had refused--the other one. She remembered the dress she wore--a
thin little mull, cut low about the throat and strewn with pink
rosebuds. And it was on that same bench. She had done it very gently.
She had simply shown him her ring, and begged him with a little catch
of the breath to be her friend--always. His was the sort of heart a
woman might warm herself by all her life. He was tender and impulsive
like herself, and he had always understood--always. How could she have
forgotten for so long? Friends were rare--and he had promised to be
her friend through everything. Her friend! Had he realized how much
that meant?

Her step had grown very slow; sh