. "I do not intend to marry her."

"You would leave her to bear it alone?"

"It is not as if she were a poor woman. You can do anything with money."

"It will not mend reputation. Her position in society is everything to
that class of woman."

"My marrying her now," he pointed out, "would not save her."

"Practically speaking it would," the girl pleaded. "The world does not
go out of its way to find out things it does not want to know. Marry her
as quietly as possible and travel for a year or two."

"Why should I? Ah! it is easy enough to call a man a coward for
defending himself against a woman. What is he to do when he is fighting
for his life? Men do not sin with good women."

"There is the child to be considered," she urged--"your child. You see,
dear, we all do wrong sometimes. We must not let others suffer for our
fault more--more than we can help."

He turned to her for the first time. "And you?"

"I? Oh, I shall cry for a little while, but later on I shall laugh, as
often. Life is not all love. I have my work."

He knew her well by this time. And also it came to him that it would be
a finer thing to be worthy of her than even to possess her.

So he did her bidding and went out with the other woman. Tommy was glad
it was press-night. She would not be able to think for hours to come,
and then, perhaps, she would be feeling too tired. Work can be very
kind.

Were this an artistic story, here, of course, one would write "Finis."
But in the workaday world one never knows the ending till it comes. Had
it been otherwise, I doubt I could have found courage to tell you this
story of Tommy. It is not all true--at least, I do not suppose so. One
drifts unconsciously a little way into dream-land when one sits oneself
down to recall the happenings of long ago; while Fancy, with a sly wink,
whispers ever and again to Memory: "Let me tell this incident--picture
that scene: I can make it so much more interesting than you would." But
Tommy--how can I put it without saying too much: there is someone I think
of when I speak of her? To remember only her dear wounds, and not the
healing of them, would have been a task too painful. I love to dwell on
their next meeting. Flipp, passing him on the steps, did not know him,
the tall, sunburnt gentleman with the sweet, grave-faced little girl.

"Seen that face somewhere before," mused Flipp, as at the corner of
Bedford Street he climbed into a hansom