ngly fixed upon her, as if he would read her soul.

"I went West--yes--" continued Carley. "But it was selfishly. I wanted
Glenn to come back here.... He had suffered as you have. He nearly died.
But he fought--he fought--Oh! he went through hell! And after a long,
slow, horrible struggle he began to mend. He worked. He went to raising
hogs. He lived alone. He worked harder and harder.... The West and his
work saved him, body and soul.... He had learned to love both the West
and his work. I did not blame him. But I could not live out there. He
needed me. But I was too little--too selfish. I could not marry him. I
gave him up. ... I left--him--alone!"

Carley shrank under the scorn in Rust's eyes.

"And there's another man," he said, "a clean, straight, unscarred fellow
who wouldn't fight!"

"Oh, no-I--I swear there's not," whispered Carley.

"You, too," he replied, thickly. Then slowly he turned that worn dark
face to the wall. His frail breast heaved. And his lean hand made her a
slight gesture of dismissal, significant and imperious.

Carley fled. She could scarcely see to find the car. All her internal
being seemed convulsed, and a deadly faintness made her sick and cold.

CHAPTER X

Carley's edifice of hopes, dreams, aspirations, and struggles fell in
ruins about her. It had been built upon false sands. It had no ideal for
foundation. It had to fall.

Something inevitable had forced her confession to Rust. Dissimulation
had been a habit of her mind; it was more a habit of her class than
sincerity. But she had reached a point in her mental strife where
she could not stand before Rust and let him believe she was noble and
faithful when she knew she was neither. Would not the next step in
this painful metamorphosis of her character be a fierce and passionate
repudiation of herself and all she represented?

She went home and locked herself in her room, deaf to telephone and
servants. There she gave up to her shame. Scorned--despised--dismissed
by that poor crippled flame-spirited Virgil Rust! He had reverenced
her, and the truth had earned his hate. Would she ever forget his
look--incredulous--shocked--bitter--and blazing with unutterable
contempt? Carley Burch was only another Nell--a jilt--a mocker of the
manhood of soldiers! Would she ever cease to shudder at memory of Rust's
slight movement of hand? Go! Get out of my sight! Leave me to my agony
as you left Glenn Kilbourne alone to fight his! Men such