most fizzled?"

"The hardest I knew how. I was afraid you were losing your nerve."

"I was. I never was so scared in my life. It came over me all at once
that the next few minutes would probably decide everything for me, and
I could see only strangers--critical strangers who wouldn't care. Then
I saw you sitting back there and--and then I could sing. Thank you for
coming."

"You're quite welcome, I'm sure." He laughed at her thanks. "Did you
think for a minute that I could stay away? And are you aware that we
have never shaken hands? It is really high time. Would you mind?"

Her smile was sunshine itself. "With all my heart." She put out her
hand. He took it and held it.

And he dropped it and stood looking strangely at his own hand. For it
was tingling deliciously. And at her touch and the look that went with
it his heart had burst into a sudden mad singing--a song not of exile
or thanksgiving, but of a longing to which he might never give tongue.

The hand fell slowly to his side. With an effort he lifted his glance
to her questioning, startled eyes. He tried to make his voice easy and
natural, but it was heavy and stiff.

"I--I congratulate you. I hope--I know--to-day is only the beginning
of many fine things for you."

Then he turned quickly and left her.

In his room, when the first daze had cleared a little, he set himself
sternly to face this new thing. For he knew now why the old sense of
loss--of the dream woman shrunk to a wife to whom love was only a
bauble to be worn in fair weather--and why the failure of love had
ceased to trouble, why Shirley had drifted so quickly, so easily into
the shadowy background of his life. He saw what had helped him to win
his new brave philosophy, had builded the walls of his sanctuary. His
poor sanctuary! What refuge could it offer now? Another house of his
building lay about him, a grim hopeless ruin.

"Oh, Esther!" he whispered to the girl he might not have. "Oh, Esther!"

He sat there, trying to see what he must do. Darkness fell. But he
wanted no light. He did not stir until late in the evening chords from
the piano reached him.

He rose and opened the door and a voice, athrob with pain, floated up
to him.

"By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept. . . ."

CHAPTER X

AT THE DOOR

But Shirley was a fact. By morning--no sleep came to him that
night--he had decided what he must do about that fact. It was then not