in a burst of almost divine inspiration,
insisted that his wife was quite incompetent to light the gas alone at
that hour of the night. When the old folks had shuffled into the kitchen
Grant found himself standing close to Phyllis Bruce.

"Why didn't you answer my letters?" he demanded, plunging to the issue
with the directness of his nature.

"Because I had promised to let you forget," she replied. There was a
softness in her voice which he had not noted in those bygone days;
she seemed more resigned and yet more poised; the strange wizardry of
suffering had worked new wonders in her soul. Suddenly, as he looked
upon her, he became aware of a new quality in Phyllis Bruce--the quality
of gentleness. She had added this to her unique self-confidence, and
it had toned down the angularities of her character. To Grant, straight
from his long exile from fine womanly domesticity, she suddenly seemed
altogether captivating.

"But I didn't want to forget!" he insisted. "I wanted not to
forget--YOU."

She could not misunderstand the emphasis he placed on that last word,
but she continued as though he had not interrupted.

"I knew you would write once or twice out of courtesy. I knew you would
do that. I made up my mind that if you wrote three times, then I would
know you really wanted to remember me.... I did not get any third
letter."

"But how could I know that you had placed such a test--such an arbitrary
measurement--upon my friendship?"

"It wasn't necessary for you to know. If you had cared--enough--you
would have kept on writing."

He had to admit to himself that there was just enough truth in what she
said to make her logic unanswerable. His delight in her presence now did
not alter the fact that he had found it quite possible to live for four
years without her, and it was true that upon one or two great vital
moments his mind had leapt, not to Phyllis Bruce, but to Zen Transley!
He blushed at the recollection; it was an impossible situation, but it
was true!

He was framing some plausible argument about honorable men not
persisting in a correspondence when Murdoch bustled in again.

"Mother is going to set the dining-room table," he announced, "and the
coffee will be ready presently. Well, sir, you do look well in uniform.
You will be wondering how the business has gone?"

"Not half as much as I am wondering some other things," he said, with
a significance intended for the ear of Phyllis. "You see--I was ju