him. And now, all
at once, she knew she was going to do it, and that it was a needless
and cruel and insane and useless thing to do, for it led her nowhere,
and it would leave him in helpless pain.

"Vanya," she said, "I am in love with Jim Shotwell."

After a few moments, she turned and slowly crossed the studio. Her hat
and coat lay on a chair. She put them on and walked out.

* * * * *

The following morning, Palla, arriving to consult Marya on a matter of
the Club's business, discovered Vanya alone in the studio.

He was lying on the lounge when she entered, and he looked ill, but he
rose with all his characteristic grace and charm and led her to a
chair, saluting her hand as he seated her.

"Marya has not yet arrived?" she inquired.

His delicate features became very grave and still.

"I thought," added Palla, "that Marya usually breakfasted at
eleven----"

Something in his expression checked her; and she fell silent,
fascinated by the deathly whiteness of his face.

"I am sorry to tell you," he said, in a pleasant and steady voice,
"that Marya has not returned."

"Why--why, I didn't know she was away----"

"Yesterday she decided. Later she was good enough to telephone from
the Hotel Rajah, where, for the present, she expects to remain."

"Oh, Vanya!" Palla's involuntary exclamation brought a trace of colour
into his cheeks.

He said: "It is not her fault. She was loyal and truthful. One may not
control one's heart.... And if she is in love--well, is she not free
to love him?"

"Who--is--it?" asked Palla faintly.

"Mr. Shotwell, it appears."

In the dead silence, Vanya passed his hand slowly across his temples;
let it drop on his knee.

"Freedom above all else," he said, "--freedom to love, freedom to
cease loving, freedom to love anew.... Well ... it is curious--the
scheme of things.... Love must remain inexplicable. For there is no
analysis. I think there never could be any man who cared as I have
cared, as I do care for her...."

He rose, and to Palla he seemed already a trifle stooped;--it may have
been his studio coat, which fitted badly.

"But, Vanya dear--" Palla looked at him miserably, conscious of her
own keen fears as well as of his sorrow. "Don't you think she'll come
back? Do you suppose it is really so serious--what she thinks
about--Mr. Shotwell?"

He shook his head: "I don't know.... If it is so, it is so. Freedom is
of first imp