dy.

"Well," she went on presently, "thank heavens I have plenty of will
power. I remember nothing, absolutely nothing, which happened before this
evening. I am going to tell myself that an uncle in Australia has died
and left me money, and so we are here in New York to spend it. To-morrow
I am going to begin. I shall buy clothes--all sorts of clothes--and hats.
You won't know me to-morrow evening, Philip."

His heart sank. To-morrow evening!

"But Beatrice," he expostulated, "you don't think of staying out here, do
you? You don't know a soul. You haven't a friend in the city."

"What friends have I in England?" she retorted. "Not one! I may just as
well start a new life in a new country. It seems bright enough here, and
gay. I like it. I shall move to a different sort of hotel to-morrow. You
must help me choose one. And as to friends," she whispered, looking up at
him with a little provocative gleam in her eyes, "don't you count? Can't
you do what I am going to do, Philip? Can't you draw down that curtain?"

He shivered.

"I can't!" he muttered.

A waiter brought their first course, and she at once evinced interest in
her food. She returned to the subject, however, later on, after she had
drunk another glass of wine.

"You're a silly old thing, you know," she declared. "You found the
courage, somehow, to break away from that loathsome existence. You had
more courage, even, than I, because you ran a risk I never did. But here
you are, free, with the whole world before you, and your last danger
disappearing with the knowledge that I am ready to be your friend and
am sensible about everything that has happened. This ought to be an
immense relief to you, Philip. You ought to be the happiest man on earth.
And there you sit, looking like a death's-head! Look at me for a moment
like a human being, can't you? Drink some more wine. There must be some
strength, some manhood about you somewhere, or you couldn't have done
what you have done."

He filled his glass mechanically. She leaned across the table. Her eyes
were bright, her cheeks delicately pink.

"Courage, Philip," she murmured. "Remember that what you did ... well, in
a way it was for my sake, wasn't it?--for love of me? I am here now and
we are both free. The old days are passed. Even their shadow cannot
trouble us any longer. Don't be a sentimentalist. Listen and I'll tell
you something--at the bottom of my heart I rather admire you for what you
did. Don't