ve him, Sally?"

The heavy sigh, so deep drawn that it seemed to strain down to her
heart--that was answer enough. What further answer need she give?
Sighs, tears, the catch in the breath, the look in the eyes, the look
from the eyes--those are the language in which a woman really speaks.
Words, she uses to hide them.

CHAPTER XIX

If you look into life, you will find that the key-note of every
woman's existence is love--the broad, the great, the grand passion.
She may take up a million causes, champion a thousand aims; but the
end that she reaches--is love. To fail in such an end--to lose the
grasp of it when once it might have been hers--this is the most bitter
of aloes; gall that eats into her blood and corrodes her clearest
vision. A man, forging destinies, is a king, to be mated only with
a woman who loves.

There are exceptions; but these are not needed to prove the rule;
for there hangs even some doubt, like a fly in the amber, in the
history of Jeanne D'Arc, the most patent an example of them all. Yet
whether, as some chronicles would say, she was never burnt as a witch,
but smuggled into the country, and there mated in love--and it would
seem a shame unpardonable to rob history of a great martyr and the
Church of Rome of a saint--it makes no odds in the counting. Great
women have loved greatly--lesser women have loved less--but all who
are of the sex have made the heart their master, and obeyed it
whenever it has truly called.

So it had come to Sally. Beyond all doubt, she loved; beyond all
question, she was prepared to obey the faintest call that her heart
prompted. Janet, tender to her that night, fondling her and caressing
her, answering to her with the very heart that she had tried to stifle
within herself, was Janet herself again the next morning. But Sally
was unchanged.

She dressed herself silently before the mirror, looking out through
the window at the grey river-fog that fell gloomily across the water
and Janet lay in bed, her hands crossed behind her head, a cigarette
hanging between her lips and the smoke curling up past her eyes. The
school of Art did not open until eleven o'clock that morning. Sally
had to be at the office at nine.

"There'll be a fog up in Town," said Janet. She did not take the
cigarette out of her mouth. It jerked up and down with the words.

"Sure to be," Sally replied.

"Suppose Mr. Traill will come and take you out to lunch?"

Sally turned quickly. "I