she will bear his beloved name--she will have the
right to weep."

He had never seen her like this--the red was deep in her cheeks, her
voice was shaken, her bosom rose and fell with her agitation.

"Emily, my dear girl--"

"Let them marry, Bruce, can't you see? Can't you see. It is their
day--there may be no tomorrow."

"But there are practical things, Emily. If she should have a child?"

"Why not? It will be his--to love. Only a woman with empty arms knows
what that means, Bruce."

And this was Emily, this rose-red, wet-eyed creature was Emily, whom he
had deemed unemotional, cold, self-contained!

"Men forget, Bruce. You wouldn't listen to reason when you wooed
Jean's mother. You were a demanding, imperative lover--you wanted your
own way, and you had it."

"But I had known Jean's mother all my life."

"Time has nothing to do with it."

"My dear girl--"

"It hasn't."

She was illogical, and he liked it. "If I let them marry, what then?"

"They will love you for it."

"They ought to love you instead."

"I shall be out of it. They will be married, and you will be in
France, and I shall sell--toys--"

She tried to laugh, but it was a poor excuse. He glanced at her
quickly. "Shall you miss me, Emily?"

Her hands went out in a little gesture of despair. "There you go,
taking my tears to yourself."

He was a bit disconcerted. "Oh, I say--"

"But they are not for you. They are for my lost youth and romance,
Bruce. My lost youth and romance."

Leaning back in his chair he studied her. Her eyes were dreamy--the
rose-red was still in her cheeks. For the first time he realized the
prettiness of Emily; it was as if in her plea for others she had
brought to life something in herself which glowed and sparkled.

"Look here," he said. "I want you to write to me."

"I am a busy woman."

"But a letter now and then--"

"Well, now and then--"

He was forced to be content with that. She was really very charming,
he decided as he got into his car. She was such a gentlewoman--she
created an atmosphere which belonged to his home and hearth.

When he came in late she was not waiting up for him as Hilda had so
often waited. There was a plate of sandwiches on his desk, coffee
ready in the percolator to be made by the turning on of the
electricity. But he ate his lunch alone.

Yet in spite of the loneliness, he was glad that Emily had not waited
up for him. It was a thing which Hilda