of those eight years of waiting, flitted
through his brain. The lord of that Fifth Avenue Mansion was in earnest,
right enough, and he had so much to offer.

"It will break me if I have to give her up," he said simply. "I believe I
should have gone overboard, crossing the Atlantic, but for her."

"There are some women," she sighed, "the best of all women, the joy of
whose life seems to be sacrifice. That sounds queer, don't it, but it's
true. They're happy in misfortune, so long as they are helping some one
else. She is wonderful, Elizabeth Dalstan. She may even be one of those.
You'll find that out. You'd better find out for yourself. There isn't any
one can help you very much."

"I am not sure that you haven't," he said. "Now I'll go. Where did you
get your violets, Martha? Had them in water since last night, haven't
you?"

She made a little grimace at him.

"A very polite young gentleman at the box office sent us each a bunch
directly we started work yesterday. I've only had a few words with him
yet, but Eva--that's the other girl--she's plagued to death with fellows
already, so I'm going to take him out one evening."

Philip stopped short. They were approaching the theatre.

"Not a step further," he declared solemnly. "I wouldn't spoil your
prospects for worlds. Run along, my little cynic, and warm your hands.
Life's good at your age--better than when I found you, eh?"

"You don't think I am ungrateful?" she asked, a little wistfully.

He shook his head.

"You couldn't be that, Martha.... Good luck to you!"

She turned away with a little farewell wave of the hand and was lost at
once in the surging stream of people. Philip summoned a taxicab, sat far
back in the corner, and drove to his rooms. He hesitated for a moment
before getting out, crossed the pavement quickly, hurried into the lift,
and, arriving up-stairs, let down the latch of the outside door. Edward
Dane was back in New York! For a moment, the memory of the great human
drama in which he found himself a somewhat pathetic figure seemed
swallowed up by this sudden resurrection of a grisly tragedy. He looked
around his room a little helplessly. Against his will, that hideous
vision which had loomed up before him in so many moments of depression
was slowly reforming itself, this time not in the still watches of the
night but in the broad daylight, with the spring sunshine to cheer his
heart, the roar of a friendly city in his ears. It was no time