ghbors, here. Mrs. Harley."

"We--we have met her," said Louise in a hollow murmur.

"Well, you can't have any idea what Yolande Havisham is from Mrs.
Harley. I shall be at the Coleman the whole evening, if Mr. Maxwell
would like to call. Well, good-morning," said Mr. Sterne, and he got
himself away before Louise could tell him that Maxwell would never give
his play to a woman; before she could say that it was already as good as
accepted by another manager; before she could declare that if no manager
ever wanted it, still, as far as Mrs. Harley was concerned, with her
smouldering eyes, it would always be in negotiation; before she could
form or express any utter and final refusal and denial of his abominable
hopes.

It remained for her either to walk quietly down to the North River and
drown herself or to wait her husband's return and tell him everything
and throw herself on his mercy, implore him, adjure him, not to give
that woman his play; and then to go into a decline that would soon rid
him of the clog and hinderance she had always been to him. It flashed
through her turmoil of emotion that it was already dark, in spite of
Mr. Sterne's good-morning at parting, and that some one might speak to
her on the way to the river; and then she thought how Maxwell would
laugh when she told him the fear of being spoken to had kept her from
suicide; and she sat waiting for him to come with such an inward
haggardness that she was astonished, at sight of herself in the glass,
to find that she wan looking very much as usual. Maxwell certainly
noticed no difference when he came in and flung himself wearily on the
lounge, and made no attempt to break the silence of their meeting; they
had kissed, of course, but had not spoken.

She was by no means sure what she was going to do; she had hoped there
would be some leading on his part that would make it easy for her to do
right, whatever the right was, but her heart sank at sight of him. He
looked defeated and harassed. But there was no help for it. She must
speak, and speak unaided; the only question was whether she had better
speak before dinner or after. She decided to speak after dinner, and
then all at once she was saying: "Brice, I have brought something
dreadful on myself."

"At the lunch?" he asked, wearily, and she saw that he thought she had
been making some silly speech she was ashamed of.

"Oh, if it had only been at the lunch!" she cried. "No, it was
here--here in th