d a dishonour? The open forehead,
the curly locks, the pleasant smile, the hundred ingratiating ways
which we carry with us out of childhood, they may all remain when the
innocence has fled, but surely the laugh of the morning of life must go.
I have never known the devil retain his grip on that.

But Mary was still waiting. She was no longer beautiful; shame had
possession of her face, she was an ugly woman. Then the entanglement
was her husband's, and I cursed him for it. But without conviction, for,
after all, what did I know of women? I have some distant memories of
them, some vain inventions. But of men--I have known one man indifferent
well for over forty years, have exulted in him (odd to think of it),
shuddered at him, wearied of him, been willing (God forgive me) to
jog along with him tolerantly long after I have found him out; I know
something of men, and, on my soul, boy, I believe I am wronging you.

Then Mary is here for some innocent purpose, to do a good deed that were
better undone, as it so scares her. Turn back, you foolish, soft heart,
and I shall say no more about it. Obstinate one, you saw the look on
your husband's face as he left you. It is the studio light by which he
paints and still sees to hope, despite all the disappointments of his
not ignoble ambitions. That light is the dower you brought him, and he
is a wealthy man if it does not flicker.

So anxious to be gone, and yet she would not go. Several times she made
little darts, as if at last resolved to escape from that detestable
street, and faltered and returned like a bird to the weasel. Again she
looked at her watch and kissed it.

Oh, Mary, take flight. What madness is this? Woman, be gone.

Suddenly she was gone. With one mighty effort and a last terrified look
round, she popped into a pawnshop.

Long before she emerged I understood it all, I think even as the door
rang and closed on her; why the timid soul had sought a street where she
was unknown, why she crept so many times past that abhorred shop before
desperately venturing in, why she looked so often at the watch she might
never see again. So desperately cumbered was Mary to keep her little
house over her head, and yet the brave heart was retaining a smiling
face for her husband, who must not even know where her little treasures
were going.

It must seem monstrously cruel of me, but I was now quite light-hearted
again. Even when Mary fled from the shop where she had left he