's splendid--and yet
there's something about it that almost breaks my heart. Mamma has lots
of pluck, you know. You mightn't think it--"

"Oh, I know it."

"I'm glad you do. People in general see only one side of her, but it's
not the only side. She has her weaknesses. I see that well enough. She's
terribly a woman; and she can't grow old. But that's not criminal, is
it? There's a great deal in her that's never been called on, and perhaps
this trouble will bring it out."

He spoke admiringly. "It will bring out a great deal in you."

She began again to pace up and down. "Oh, me! I'm so useless. I've never
been of any help to any one. Do you know, at times, latterly, I've
envied that little Rosie Fay?"

"Why?"

"Because she's got duties and responsibilities and struggles. She's got
something more to do than dress and play tennis and make calls. There
are people who depend on her--"

"She's splendid, isn't she?"

She paused in her restless pacing. "She might be. She is--very nearly."

Though he had taken the opportunity to get further away from the appeal
of her distress, he felt a pang of humiliation in the promptness with
which she followed his lead.

But he couldn't go on with the discussion. It was too sickening. Every
inflection of her voice implied that with her own need he had no longer
anything to do--that it was all over--that she recognized the fact--that
she was trying her utmost to let him off easily. That she should suspect
the truth, or connect the change with Rosie Fay, he knew was out of the
question. It was not the way in which her mind would work. If she
accounted for the situation at all it would probably be on the ground
that when it came to the point he had found that he didn't care for her.
The promises he had tacitly made and she had tacitly understood she was
ready to give back.

He was quite alive to the fact that her generosity made his impotence
the more pitiable. That he should stand tongue-tied and helpless before
the woman whom he had allowed to think that she could count on him was
galling not only to his manhood, but to all those primary instincts that
sent him to the aid of weakness. There was a minute in which it seemed
to him that if he did not on the instant redeem his self-respect it
would be lost to him for ever. After all, he did care for her--in a way.
There was no woman in the world toward whom he felt an equal degree of
reverence. More than that, there was no woman i