al.

"And she didn't care for anyone else." His coldness frightened the lie
through her unwilling lips, but she went white as she uttered it.

Philip eyed her narrowly.

"I can't see why you want _my_ advice," he said, dully.

Then, very suddenly: "Nancy, suppose there was a man who was rather
poor, as things go nowadays, and who had once been very fond of a girl
who had treated him pretty badly. And suppose there was a woman"--with
swift jealousy Nancy remembered the engagement Philip had broken in
order to dine with her that evening--"not a very young woman, who had
shoals of money, as you say, who rouged a little, and helped nature
along a little in several ways, and did a number of other things that
you and I don't exactly like, but who at heart was a very good
sort--would you advise this man to marry her?"

"And he didn't care for anyone else?" Nancy whispered.

"And he didn't care for anyone else," said Phil, steadily.

Nancy bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Oh, the mortification,
the humiliation, of it all! She would have given a week out of her
life to have been back home.

"Why, if he cared for no one else, I----" The words came with an
effort. "Who is she, Phil?"

"I'll tell you in a moment. Who is _he_, Nancy?" he asked, sternly.

"James Thornton--you've heard of him. Oh, what a pair of worldlings we
are!" She pulled herself together with a supreme effort, and, raising
her glass of red Hungarian wine to her lips, said lightly: "Here's to
my successor! May she forgive me for this one last evening!" Her hand
trembled, and some of the wine splashed on her white waist.

"It looks like a drop of blood." She shivered slightly. "Champagne
doesn't stain." Her mouth laughed, but her eyes were full of a dull
despair. "When we are married we shall both be drinking that! Do you
remember that foolish little song I used to sing, 'When we are
married'?" She tried to hum it, but failed miserably. "We shall sing
our songs with a difference, now. Oh, Boy, Boy, it has all been my
fault, hasn't it?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, tensely.

"Oh, everything," she said, wearily. "The worldliness and the
wretchedness, and now it is too late! 'Couldst thou not watch with
me?' Boy, I'm afraid I'm going to cry." Her lip quivered pitifully.

"Nance, do you _care_?"

"Care? Of course I care!" She threw her head back defiantly, and her
eyes filled with angry tears. "If I hadn't, I shouldn't be here
to-night. I--I