his voice itself was like the dull echo
of distant blows. Yet it never occurred to her to resent it, nor his
attitude, nor his self-assumed privilege. She did not care; she no
longer cared what he said to her or thought about her; nor did she care
that her mask had fallen at last. It was not what he was saying, but
what her own heart repeated so heavily that drove the colour from her
face. Not he, but she herself had become the pitiless attorney for the
prosecution; not his voice, but the clamouring conscience within her
demanded by what right she used the name of friendship to characterise
the late relations between her and the man to whom she had denied
herself.

Then a bitter impatience swept her, and a dawning fear, too; for she had
set her foot on the fallen mask, and the impulse rendered her reckless.

"Why don't you speak?" she said. "Yes, I have a right to know. I care
for him as much as you do. Why don't you answer me? I tell you I care
for him!"

"Do you?" he said in a dull voice. "Then help me out, if you can, for
I don't know what to do; and if I did, I haven't the authority of
friendship as my warrant. He is in New York. He did go to the country;
and, at his home, the servants suppose he is still away. But he isn't;
he is here, alone, and sick--sick of his old sickness. I saw him,
and"--Plank rested his head on his hand, dropping his eyes--"and he
didn't know me. I--I do not think he will remember that he met me, or
that I spoke. And--I could do nothing, absolutely nothing. And I don't
know where he is. He will go home after a while. I call--every day--to
see--see what can be done. But if he were there I would not know what to
do. When he does go home I won't know what to say--what to try to do. ...
And that is an answer to your question, Miss Landis. I give it, because
you say you care for him as I do. Will you advise me what to do?--you,
who are more entitled than I am to know the truth, because he has given
you the friendship which he has as yet not accorded to me."

But Sylvia, dry-eyed, dry-lipped, could find no voice to answer; and
after a little while they rose and moved through the fragrant gloom
toward the sparkling lights beyond.

Her voice came back as they entered the brilliant rooms: "I should
like to find Grace Ferrall," she said very distinctly. "Please keep the
others off, Mr. Plank."

Her small hand on his arm lay with a weight out of all proportion to its
size. Fair head averted, s