e are other
unfortunates besides Lawrence who have troubles to face."

"Oh, Philip, you really haven't any troubles. You merely imagine you
have."

He laughed, a little bitterly. "I suppose a life's happiness is a small
thing."

"It isn't, Philip," she protested. "But you can get out and tramp and
trap and see things, and, after all, you don't really love me as you
thought you did. We've settled all that."

"I know we have," he agreed. "That is, you have."

She looked him over, angrily. "So this is the outcome! I ask you to
think of another person who needs our care, and you disregard him for
your own little troubles!"

Philip looked down and flushed crimson. "Well, it does seem as if I
were selfish. I am afraid I am. But I do not mean to be. I can talk to
him if you wish."

"You needn't," she said, angered still more. "It isn't charity I'm
asking you to bestow on him. He doesn't need that, and you ought to know
it."

She had laid more emphasis than she intended on the word "he," and
Philip's face darkened.

"I see," he said coldly. "It is I after all to whom you are charitable.
Thank you."

Tears of vexation came to Claire's eyes. "Oh, I do wish you'd be
reasonable," she said, half angrily, half pleadingly. "Don't you
understand that I am giving you more frank friendship than ever I gave
any man in my life? Isn't that of any value to you? Don't you realize
how unfair you have been to Lawrence?"

His face grew suddenly white, as he said, "Do you love him, Claire?"

She did not look away from him. "If I did, would it concern you?"

He took one step toward her, then stopped.

"Yes, it would," he answered.

Her anger almost mastered her, but she controlled herself.

"Philip, are we two irrational animals going to spoil everything? I had
hoped you might at least allow our companionship to live."

He looked at her without answering. Finally, he choked, "Don't--don't,
Claire, I have the right to know."

"If I promise to tell you when there is anything to tell, will you be
satisfied?" She felt no scruple of conscience at her pretense of
indifference to Lawrence, only a sense of protection for him. She did
not know from what she was protecting him, but the feeling gave her a
strange pleasure.

"I will," Philip returned, simply.

"And in the mean time will you help me pull him out of his slough of
despond?" she asked, smiling with the old, frank, intimate manner.

"Surely I will, though I confess I d