didn't mean----"

"You ought to. Don't let any man take his leave in such a manner.
Men believe a woman to be what she thinks she is. Think well of
yourself. And go to bed. I never saw such a sleepy youngster in
my life! Good night, you funny, sleepy little thing."

"Mr. Berkley--I can't take--accept----"

"Oh, listen to her!" he said, disgusted. "Can't I make a bet with
my own money if I want to? I _am_ betting; and _you_ are holding
the stakes. It depends on how you use them whether I win or lose."

"I don't understand--I don't, truly," she stammered; "d-do you wish
me to--leave--the Canterbury? Do you--_what_ is it you wish?"

"You know better than I do. I'm not advising you. Where is your
home? Why don't you go there? You have one somewhere, I suppose,
haven't you?"

"Y-yes; I had."

"Well--where is it?"

"In Philadelphia."

"Couldn't you stand it?" he inquired with a sneer.

"No." She covered her face with her hands.

"Trouble?"

"Y-yes."

"Man?"

"Y-y-yes."

"Won't they take you back?"

"I--haven't written."

"Write. Home is no stupider than the Canterbury. Will you write?"

She nodded, hiding her face.

"Then--_that's_ settled. Meanwhile--" he took both her wrists and
drew away her clinging hands:

"I'd rather like to win this bet because--the odds are all against
me." He smiled, letting her hands swing back and hang inert at her
sides.

But she only closed her eyes and shook her head, standing there,
slim and tear-stained in her ruffled, wine-stained dinner dress.
And, watching her, he retreated, one step after another, slowly;
and slowly closed the door, and went out into the dawn, weary,
haggard, the taste of life bitter in his mouth.

"What a spectacle," he sneered, referring to himself, "the vicious
god from the machine! Chorus of seraphim. Apotheosis of little
Miss Turveydrop----"

He swayed a trine as he walked, but it was not from the wine.

A policeman eyed him unfavourably,

"No," said Berkley, "I'm not drunk. You think I am. But I'm not.
And I'm too tired to tell you how I left my happy, happy home."

In the rosy gray of the dawn he sat down on the steps of his new
lodgings and gazed quietly into space.

"_This_ isn't going to help," he said. "I can stand years of it
yet. And that's much too long."

He brooded for a few moments.

"I hope she doesn't write me again. I can't stand everything."

He got up with an ugly, oblique glance at t