is part against them. Even if she were willing to rebel he
couldn't do it--with a wife and boy in New York. He had married again on
purpose to satisfy his longing for a child--a family. He felt very
tenderly toward them, the little chap and his mother; but he was clear
as to the fact that he felt tenderly toward them, pityingly tender,
largely because when face to face with Edith he wished to God that they
had never been part of his life. And doubtless she felt the same toward
her Mr. Lacon and the child of that union. But she would never admit
it--not directly, at any rate. He might gather it from hints, or read
it between the lines; but he could never make her say so. Why should she
say so? What good would it do? Were she to confess to him that she hated
the man toward whom she was traveling, he would experience an unholy
satisfaction--but, after all, it would be unholy.

In the end he could find no simpler relief to his feelings than to take
down her belongings from the overhead racks.

"I'll just run along and pick up my own traps," he explained, "and come
back to see you properly looked after."

Though she assured him of her ability to look after herself, he felt at
liberty to ridicule her pretensions. "You must have changed a great deal
if you can do that," he declared, as he handed down a roll of rugs
strapped with a shawl-strap.

"I have changed a great deal."

"I don't see it. I can't see that you've changed at all--essentially."

"Oh, but it's essentially that I _am_ changed. Superficially I may be
more or less the same--a little older; but within I'm another woman."
She took advantage of the fact that his back was turned to her, as he
disentangled the handles of parasols and umbrellas from the network
above, to say further: "Perhaps--since we've met in this unexpected
way--and talked--possibly a little too frankly--it may be well if I
remind you that you'd still be confronted with that fact--that I'm
another woman--even if our bridges weren't burned behind us." He decided
to let that pass without discussion, and because he said nothing she
added: "And I dare say I should find you another man. So don't let us be
too sorry, Chip, or think that if we hadn't done what we _have_ done--"

Though he still stood with his back to her, lifting down a heavy bag
with a black canvas covering, he could hear a catch in her voice that
almost amounted to a sob. Because there was something in himself
dangerously near re