profound
secret. "She told me about her little brother being killed."

It sprang to Bert's lips to say, "Oh, what's the use?" but she checked
herself. They were at the door of her boarding-house. As he helped
her to the sidewalk Dave stood for a moment with her hand in his. He
had long liked Bert Morrison, and to-night he was powerfully drawn
toward her. He knew--what she would have most strenuously denied--that
her masculinity was a sham. Her defiance of convention--rambling like
a fellow bachelor into his apartments--her occasional profanity and
occasional cigarette--these were but the cloak from which her own deep
womanhood was forever peering forth. He felt impelled to kiss her. He
wondered if she would be angry; if such a familiarity would obstruct
their growing friendship. He felt sure she would not be angry, but she
would probably think him foolish. And man cannot endure being thought
foolish by woman.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she said as they parted, as though she really
had forgotten. "I was at a reception to-day when a beautiful woman
asked for you. Asked me if I had ever heard of Mr. David Elden.

"'What, Dave Elden, the millionaire?' I said. 'Everybody knows him.
He's the beau of the town, or could be, if he wanted to.' Oh, I gave
you a good name, Dave."

"Thanks, Bert. That was decent. Who was she?"

"She said her name was Irene Hardy."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Upon the return of Irene Hardy to the East it had slowly become
apparent to her mother that things were not as they once had been.
There were various vague stirrings of uneasiness, but perhaps the most
alarming manifestation was the strange silence in which the girl
enveloped herself. It seemed as though she had left part of her nature
behind--had outgrown it, perhaps--and had created about herself an
atmosphere of reserve foreign to her earlier life. It seemed as though
the loneliness of the great plains had settled upon her. The old
virility had been sobered; the gaiety of her girlhood had ripened into
a poise more disturbing to Mrs. Hardy than any conventional excess
could have been. She sought her own company; she tolerated social
engagements in which she had previously found delight. And, most
sinister of all, she showed no disposition to encourage the attentions
which were ready enough in the offering.

"Whatever has come over Irene?" said Mrs. Hardy to the doctor one
evening when their daughter had been particularly