e; but they were waiting for her, Stanley anxious and
Cyrilla Brindley irritated. Her eyes sought Keith. He was, as usual,
the indifferent spectator.

"Where have you been?" cried Stanley.

"Making up my mind," said she in the tone that forewarns of a storm.

A brief pause. She struggled in vain against an impulse to look at
Keith. When her eyes turned in his direction he, not looking at her,
moved in his listless way toward the door. Said he:

"The auto's waiting. Come on."

She vacillated, yielded, began to put on the wraps Stanley was
collecting for her. It was a big touring-car, and they sat two and
two, with the chauffeur alone. Keith was beside Mildred. When they
were under way, she said:

"Why did you stop me? Perhaps I'll never have the courage again."

"Courage for what?" asked he.

"To take your advice, and break off."

"MY advice?"

"Yes, your advice."

"You have to clutch at and cling to somebody, don't you? You can't
bear the idea of standing up by your own strength."

"You think I'm trying to fasten to you?" she said, with an angry laugh.

"I know it. You admitted it. You are not satisfied with the way
things are going. You have doubts about your career. You shrink from
your only comfortable alternative, if the career winks out. You ask me
my opinion about yourself and about careers. I give it. Now, I find
you asked only that you might have someone to lean on, to accuse of
having got you into a mess, if doing what you think you ought to do
turns out as badly as you fear."

It was the longest speech she had heard him make. She had no
inclination to dispute his analysis of her motives. "I did not realize
it," said she, "but that is probably so. But--remember how I was
brought up."

"There's only one thing for you to do."

"Go back to my husband? You know--about me--don't you?"

"Yes"

"I can't go back to him."

"No."

"Then--what?" she asked.

"Go on, as now," replied he.

"You despise me, don't you?"

"No."

"But you said you did."

"Dislike and despise are not at all the same."

"You admit that you dislike me," cried she triumphantly. He did not
answer.

"You think me a weak, clinging creature, not able to do anything but
make pretenses."

No answer.

"Don't you?" she persisted.

"Probably I have about the same opinion of you that you have of
yourself."

"What WILL become of me?" she said. Her face lighted up with an
expression of reckless b