us to
change our customs in the very least for each other, and I assure you in
the long-run that tells. It's possible, of course, that you may hate me;
but I don't believe you do; and, in case you don't, I see no reason why
we shouldn't lead an easy life together. Really, looking at it in that
way, it's a very pretty little prospect--for people of sense."

As he concluded with these words, genially uttered, Margaret dropped
suddenly into a chair which was near her and covered her face with her
hands.

Lanse looked at her, there was genuine kindness in his beautiful dark
eyes with the yellow lights in them. "There's one question I might ask
you, Margaret--but no, I won't; it's really none of my business. You
will always _act_ like an angel; your thoughts are your own affair."

Margaret still sat motionless, her face covered.

"I'm very sorry you feel so; I meant to be--I want to be--as considerate
as possible. Great heavens!" Lanse went on, "what a fettered, restricted
existence you women--the good ones--do lead! I have the greatest
sympathy for you. When you're wretched, you can't do anything; you can't
escape, and you can't take any of the compensations men take when they
want to balance ill luck in other directions; all you can do is--sit
still and bear it! I wonder you endure it as you do. But I won't talk
about it, talking's all rot; short of killing myself, I don't know that
there's anything I can do that would improve the situation; and that
wouldn't be of any use either, at least to you, because it would leave
you feeling guilty, and guilt you could never bear. Come, hold up your
head, Madge; nothing in this stupid life is worth feeling so wretched
about; life's nothing but rubbish, after all. Get the checker-board and
we'll have a game."

Margaret had risen. "I can't to-night."

"But what am I to do, then?" began Lanse, in a complaining tone. He was
as good as his word, he had already dismissed the subject from his mind.
"Well, if you must go," he went on, "just hand me that book of poor
Malleson's, first."

This was a book of sketches of the work of Mino da Fiesole, the loving,
patient studies of a young American who had died in Italy years before,
when Lanse was there. Lanse had been kind to him, at the last had closed
his eyes, and had then laid him to sleep in that lovely shaded cemetery
under the shadow of the pyramid outside the walls of Rome--sweet last
resting-place that lingers in many a travel