the bed.

Her mental state was peculiar, and her thoughts revolved about the
journey from Oxford Street homeward. A thousand times she mentally
repeated the journey, speaking the same words over and over again, and
hearing Monte Irvin's replies.

In those few minutes during which they had been together her sentiments
in regard to him had undergone a change. She had always respected Irvin,
but this respect had been curiously compounded of the personal and the
mercenary; his well-ordered establishment at Prince's Gate had loomed
behind the figure of the man forming a pleasing background to the
portrait. Without being showy he was a splendid "match" for any woman.
His wife would have access to good society, and would enjoy every luxury
that wealth could procure. This was the picture lovingly painted and
constantly retouched by Rita's mother.

Now it had vanished. The background was gone, and only the man remained;
the strong, reserved man whose deep voice had spoken so gently, whose
devotion was so true and unselfish that he only sought to shield and
protect her from follies the nature of which he did not even seek to
learn. She was stripped of her vanity, and felt loathsome and unworthy
of such a love.

"Oh," she moaned, rocking to and fro. "I hate myself--I hate myself!"

Now that the victory so long desired seemed at last about to be won, she
hesitated to grasp the prize. One solacing reflection she had. She would
put the errors of the past behind her. Many times of late she had found
herself longing to be done with the feverish life of the stage. Envied
by those who had been her companions in the old chorus days, and any one
of whom would have counted ambition crowned could she have played The
Maid of the Masque, Rita thought otherwise. The ducal mansions and
rose-bowered Riviera hotels through which she moved nightly had no charm
for her; she sighed for reality, and had wearied long ago of the canvas
palaces and the artificial Southern moonlight. In fact, stage life had
never truly appealed to her--save as a means to an end.

Again and yet again her weary brain reviewed the episodes of the night
since she had left Cyrus Kilfane's flat, so that nearly an hour had
elapsed before she felt capable of the operation of undressing. Finally,
however, she undressed, shuddering although the room was warmed by an
electric radiator. The weakness and sickness had left her, but she was
quite wide awake, although her brain de