oans before Constantine began coherently: "He'll do what I
say or he'll not stay in this house. I expected this----"

"Oh, you don't understand, papa. He doesn't want to stay here, not at
all! He does not want me. There, now you know it! He must have said
something of this to you--perhaps you didn't believe him. Neither did
I--at first. Oh, my head aches terribly and I know I shall be ill. He
wants me to be a poor man's wife--starting again, he calls it--while
he earns a salary and we live in a poky house and I do the cooking.
I'd think it awfully funny if it was happening to any of my
friends--but this is terrible! Well, goat-tending tells, doesn't it?
And after all we have done for him--to babble on about honesty and
earning and all those socialistic ideas. He is a dangerous man, papa;
really. I don't care."

Constantine stopped moaning. "Look up at me." He made her lift her
face from the tangle of silk bed quilts. "Do you love him?"

"Why, papa, I always adored Stevuns--but of course I can't give up the
things to which I've been accustomed! It's so silly that I think he is
queer even to suggest it--don't you?"

"You won't love him if he goes out of here and you stay," the old man
said, slowly; "but if he will stay and do as I tell him--then you'll
love him?"

"Yes"--with great relief that she was not called upon to keep on
explaining and analyzing her own feelings and Steve's motives; it was
entirely too much of a strain--"that is it. If Steve will stay here
and do what you tell him--I think he'd better retire from business and
just look after our interests--I shall forgive him. But if he keeps up
this low anarchistic talk about dragging me to a washtub--oh, it's too
absurd!--I'm going to Reno and be done with all of it." She drew away
from her father and the same cold, shrewd look of the mature flirt
replaced her confusion. "Don't you think that is sensible?"

Her father closed his eyes for a moment. Then he whispered: "So you
don't love him."

Beatrice had to stoop to catch the words. "You can't be expected to
love people that make you unhappy."

"Oh, can't you?" he asked. "Can't you? Did you never think that loving
someone is the bravest thing in the world? It takes courage to keep
on loving the dead, for instance; the dead that keep stabbing away at
your heart all through the years. Loving doesn't always make you
happy, it makes you brave--real love!"

He opened his eyes to look at her closely. Beatric