ty to Clayton than had his house.
Even the shop windows, as he walked toward Audrey's unfashionable new
neighborhood, cried out their message of peace. Peace--when there was no
peace.

Audrey was alone, but her little room was crowded with gifts and
flowers.

"I was hoping you would come, Clay," she said. "I've had some visitors,
but they're gone. I'll tell them down-stairs that I'm not at home, and
we can really talk."

"That's what I came for."

And when she had telephoned; "I've had a letter from Chris, Audrey."

She read it slowly, and he was surprised, when she finally looked up, to
find tears in her eyes.

"Poor old Chris!" she said. "I've never told you the story, have I,
Clay? Of course I know perfectly well I haven't. There was another
woman. I think I could have understood it, perhaps, if she had been a
different sort of a woman. But--I suppose it hurt my pride. I didn't
love him. She was such a vulgar little thing. Not even pretty.
Just--woman."

He nodded.

"He was fastidious, too. I don't understand it. And he swears he never
cared for her. I don't believe he did, either. I suppose there's no
explanation for these things. They just happen. It's the life we live, I
dare say. When I look back--She's the girl I sent into the mill."

He was distinctly shocked.

"But, Audrey," he protested, "you are not seeing her, are you?"

"Now and then. She has fastened herself on me, in a way. Don't scowl
like that. She says she is straight now and that she only wants a chance
to work. She's off the stage for good. She--danced. That money I got
from you was for her. She was waiting, up-stairs. Chris was behind with
her rent, and she was going to lose her furniture."

"That you should have to do such a thing!" he protested. "It's--well,
it's infamous."

But she only smiled.

"Well, I've never been particularly shielded. It hasn't hurt me. I don't
even hate her. But I'm puzzled sometimes. Where there's love it might be
understandable. Most of us would hate to have to stand the test of real
love, I daresay. There's a time in every one's life, I suppose, when
love seems to be the only thing that matters."

That was what the poet in that idiotic book had said: "There is no other
joy."

"Even you, Clay," she reflected, smilingly. "You big, grave men go all
to pieces, sometimes."

"I never have," he retorted.

She returned Chris's letter to him.

"There," she said. "I've had my little whimper, and I feel