"Yes."
"Pshaw!"

"A _can-can_!"

Lightbody, fearing to betray himself, did not dare to look at the
triumphant bachelor. He covered his eyes with his hands and sought to
fight down the joyful hysteria that began to shake his whole body. All
at once he caught sight of De Gollyer's impish eyes, and, unable longer
to contain himself, burst out laughing. The more he laughed at De
Gollyer, who laughed back at him, the more uncontrollable he became.
Tears came to his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, washing away all
illusions and self-deception, leaving only the joy of deliverance,
acknowledged at last.

All at once holding his sides, he found a little breath and cried
combustibly:

"A _can-can_!"

Suddenly, with one impulse, they locked arms and pirouetted about the
room, flinging out destructive legs, hugging each other with bear-like
hugs as they had done in college days of triumph. Exhausted at last,
they reeled apart, and fell breathless into opposite chairs. There was a
short moment of weak, physical silence, and then Lightbody, shaking his
head, said solemnly:

"Jim--Jim, that's the first real genuine laugh I've had in six vast
years!"

"My boy, it won't be the last."

"You bet it won't!" Lightbody sprang up, as out of the ashen cloak of
age the young Faust springs forth. "To-morrow--do you hear, to-morrow
we're off for Morocco!"

"By way of Paris?" questioned De Gollyer, who likewise gained a dozen
years of youthfulness.

"Certainly by way of Paris."

"With a dash of Vienna?"

"Run it off the map!"

"Good old Jack! You're coming back, my boy, you're coming strong!"

"Am I? Just watch!" Dancing over to the desk, he seized a dozen heavy
books:

"'Evolution and Psychology,' 'Burning Questions!' 'Woman's Position in
Tasmania!' Aha!"

One by one, he flung them viciously over his head, reckoning not the
crash with which they fell. Then with the same _pas de ballet_ he
descended on the hat-box and sent it from his boot crashing over the
piano. Before De Gollyer could exclaim, he was at the closet, working
havoc with the boxes of cigars.

"Here, I say," said De Gollyer laughing, "look out, those are cigars!"

"No, they're not," said Lightbody, pausing for a moment. Then, seizing
two boxes, he whirled about the room holding them at arms' length,
scattering them like the sparks of a pin-wheel, until with a final
motion he flung the emptied boxes against the ceiling, and, coming to an
abrupt stop, shot out a mandatory forefinger, and cried:

"Jim, you dine with me!"

"The fact is--"

"No buts, no excuses! Break all engagements! To-night we celebrate!"

"Immense!"

"Round up the boys--all the boys--the old crowd. I'm middle-aged, am I?"

"By George," said De Gollyer, in free admiration, "you're getting into
form, my boy, excellent form. Fine, fine, very fine!"

"In half an hour at the Club."

"Done."

"Jim?"

"Jack!"

They precipitated themselves into each other's arms. Lightbody, as
delirious as a young girl at the thought of her first ball, cried:

"Paris, Vienna, Morocco--two years around the world!"

"On my honor!"

Rapidly Lightbody, impatient for the celebration, put De Gollyer into
his coat and armed him with his cane.

"In half an hour, Jim. Get Budd, get Reggie Longworth, and, I say, get
that little reprobate of a Smithy, will you?"

"Yes, by George."

At the door, De Gollyer, who, when he couldn't leave on an epigram,
liked to recall the best thing he had said, turned:

"Never again, eh, old boy?"

"Never," cried Lightbody, with the voice of a cannon.

"No social sounding-board for us, eh?"

"Never again!"

"You do like that, don't you? I say a good thing now and then, don't I?"

Lightbody, all eagerness, drove him down the hall, crying:

"Round 'em up--round them all up! I'll show them if I've come back!"

When he had returned, waltzing on his toes to the middle of the room, he
stopped and flung out his arms in a free gesture, inhaling a delicious
breath. Then, whistling busily, he went to a drawer in the book-shelves
and came lightly back, his arms crowded with time-tables, schedules of
steamers, maps of various countries. All at once, remembering, he seized
the telephone and, receiving no response, rang impatiently.

"Central--hello--hello! Central, why don't you answer? Central, give
me--give me--hold up, wait a second!" He had forgotten the number of his
own club. In communication at last, he heard the well-modulated accents
of Rudolph--Rudolph who recognized his voice after six years. It gave
him a little thrill, this reminder of the life he was entering once
more. He ordered one of the dinners he used to order, and hung up the
receiver, with a smile and a little tightening about his heart at the
entry he, the prodigal, would make that night at the Club.

Then, seizing a map of Morocco in one hand and a schedule of sailings in
the other, he sat down to plan, chanting over and over, "Paris, Vienna,
Morocco, India, Paris, Vienna--"

At this moment, unnoticed by him, the doors moved noiselessly and Mrs.
Lightbody entered; a woman full of appealing movements in her lithe
body, and of quick, decisive perceptions in the straight, gray glance of
her eyes. She held with one hand a cloak fastened loosely about her
throat. On her head was the hat with the three white feathers.

A minute passed while she stood, rapidly seizing every indication that
might later assist her. Then she moved slightly and said in a voice of
quiet sadness:

"Jackie."

"Great God!"

Lightbody, overturning chair and table, sprang up--recoiling as one
recoils before an avenging specter. In his convulsive fingers were the
time-tables, clinging like damp lily pads.

"Jackie, I couldn't do it. I couldn't abandon you. I've come back."
Gently, seeming to move rather than to walk, advancing with none of the
uncertainty that was in her voice, she cried, with a little break:
"Forgive me!"

"No, no, never!"

He retreated behind a chair, fury in his voice, weak at the thought of
the floating, entangling scarf, and the perfume he knew so well. Then,
recovering himself, he cried brutally:

"Never! You have given me my freedom. I'll keep it! Thanks!"

With a gradual motion, she loosened her filmy cloak and let it slip from
the suddenly revealed shoulders and slender body.

"No, no, I forbid you!" he cried. Anger--animal, instinctive
anger--began to possess him. He became brutal as he felt himself growing
weak.

"Either you go out or I do!"

"You will listen."

"What? To lies?"

"When you have heard me, you will understand, Jack."

"There is nothing to be said. I have not the slightest intention of
taking back--"

"Jack!"

Her voice rang out with sudden impressiveness: "I swear to you I have
not met him, I swear to you I came back of my own free will, because I
could not meet him, because I found that it was you--you only--whom I
wanted!"

"That is a lie!"

She recoiled before the wound in his glance. She put her long white hand
over her heart, throwing all of herself into the glance that sought to
conquer him.

"I swear it," she said simply.

"Another lie!"

"Jack!"

It was a physical rage that held him now, a rage divided against
itself--that longed to strike down, to crush, to stifle the thing it
coveted. He had almost a fear of himself. He cried:

"If you don't go, I'll--I'll--"

Suddenly he found something more brutal than a blow, something that must
drive her away, while yet he had the strength of his passion. He
crossed his arms, looking at her with a cold look.

"I'll tell you why you came back. You went to him for just one reason.
You thought he had more money than I had. You came back when you found
he hadn't."

He saw her body quiver and it did him good.

"That ends it," she said, hardly able to speak. She dropped her head
hastily, but not before he had seen the tears.

"Absolutely."

In a moment she would be gone. He felt all at once uneasy, ashamed--she
seemed so fragile.

"My cloak--give me my cloak," she said, and her voice showed that she
accepted his verdict.

He brought the cloak to where she stood wearily, and put it on her
shoulders, stepping back instantly.

"Good-by."

It was said more to the room than to him.

"Good-by," he said dully.

She took a step and then raised her eyes to his.

"That was more than you had a right to say, even to me," she said
without reproach in her voice.

He avoided her look.

"You will be sorry. I know you," she said with pity for him. She went
toward the door.

"I am sorry," he said impulsively. "I shouldn't have said it."

"Thank you," she said, stopping and returning a little toward him.

He drew back as though already he felt her arms about him.

"Don't," she said, smiling a tired smile. "I'm not going to try that."

Her instinct had given her possession of the scene. He felt it and was
irritated.

"Only let us part quietly--with dignity," she said, "for we have been
happy together for six years." Then she said rapidly:

"I want you to know that I shall do nothing to dishonor your name. I am
not going to him. That is ended."

An immense curiosity came to him to learn the reason of this strange
avowal. But he realized it would never do for him to ask it.

"Good-by, Jackie," she said, having waited a moment. "I shall not see
you again."

He watched her leaving with the same moving grace with which she had
come. All at once he found a way of evasion.

"Why don't you go to him?" he said harshly.

She stopped but did not turn.

"No," she said, shaking her head. And again she dared to continue toward
the door.

"I shall not stand in your way," he said curtly, fearing only that she
would leave. "I will give you a divorce. I don't deny a woman's
liberty."

She turned, saying:

"Do you allow a woman liberty to know her own mind?"

"What do you mean?"

She came back until he almost could have touched her, standing looking
into his eyes with a wistful, searching glance, clasping and unclasping
her tense fingers.

"Jack," she said, "you never really cared."

"So it is all my fault!" he cried, snapping his arms together, sure now
that she would stay.

"Yes, it is."

"What!" he cried in a rage--already it was a different rage--"didn't I
give you anything you wanted, everything I had, all my time, all--"

"All but yourself," she said quietly; "you were always cold."

"I!"

"You were! You were!" she said sharply, annoyed at the contradiction.
But quickly remembering herself, she continued with only a regretful
sadness in her voice:

"Always cold, always matter-of-fact. Bob of the head in the morning,
jerk of the head at night. When I was happy over a new dress or a new
hat you never noticed it--until the bill came in. You were always
matter-of-fact, absolutely confident I was yours, body and soul."

"By George, that's too much!" he cried furiously. "That's a fine one.
I'm to blame--of course I'm to blame!"

She drew a step away from him, and said:

"Listen! No, listen quietly, for when I've told you I shall go."

Despite himself, his anger vanished at her quiet command.

"If I listen," he thought, "it's all over."

He still believed he was resisting, only he wanted to hear as he had
never wanted anything else--to learn why she was not going to the other
man.

"Yes, what has happened is only natural," she said, drawing her eyebrows
a little together and seeming to reason more with herself. "It had to
happen before I could really be sure of my love for you. You men know
and choose from the knowledge of many women. A woman, such as I, coming
to you as a girl, must often and often ask herself if she would still
make the same choice. Then another man comes into her life and she makes
of him a test to know once and for all the answer to her question. Jack,
that was it. That was the instinct that drove me to try if I _could_
leave you--the instinct I did not understand then, but that I do now,
when it's too late."

"Yes, she is clever," he thought to himself, listening to her, desiring
her the more as he admired what he did not credit. He felt that he
wanted to be convinced and with a last angry resistance, said:

"Very clever, indeed!"

She looked at him with her clear, gray look, a smile in her eyes,
sadness on her lips.

"You know it is true."

He did not reply. Finally he said bruskly:

"And when did--did the change come to you?"

"In the carriage, when every turn of the wheel, every passing street,
was rushing me away from you. I thought of you--alone--lost--and
suddenly I knew. I beat with my fists on the window and called to the
coachman like a madman. I don't know what I said. I came back."

She stopped, pressing back the tears that had started on her eyelids at
the memory. She controlled herself, gave a quick little nod, without
offering her hand, went toward the door.

"What! I've got to call her back!" He said it to himself, adding
furiously: "Never!"

He let her go to the door itself, vowing he would not make the advance.

When the door was half open, something in him cried: "Wait!"

She closed the door softly, but she did not immediately turn round. The
palms of her hands were wet with the cold, frightened sweat of that
awful moment. When she returned, she came to him with a wondering,
timid, girlish look in her eyes.

"Oh, Jack, if you only could!" she said, and then only did she put out
her hands and let her fingers press over his heart.

The next moment she was swept up in his arms, shrinking and very still.

All at once he put her from him and said roughly:

"What was his name?"

"No, no!"

"Give me his name," he said miserably. "I must know it."

"No--neither now nor at any other time," she said firmly, and her look
as it met his had again all the old domination. "That is my condition."

"Ah, how weak I have been," he said to himself, with a last bitter,
instinctive revolt. "How weak I am."

She saw and understood.

"We must be generous," she said, changing her voice quickly to
gentleness. "He has been pained enough already. He alone will suffer.
And if you knew his name it would only make you unhappy."

He still rebelled, but suddenly to him came a thought which at first he
was ashamed to express.

"He doesn't know?"

She lied.

"No."

"He's still waiting--there?"

"Yes."

"Ah, he's waiting," he said to himself.

A gleam of vanity, of triumph over the discarded, humiliated one, leaped
up fiercely within him and ended all the lingering, bitter memories.

"Then you care?" she said, resting her head on his shoulder that he
might not see she had read such a thought.

"Care?" he cried. He had surrendered. Now it was necessary to be
convinced. "Why, when I received your letter I--I was wild. I wanted to
do murder."

"Jackie!"

"I was like a madman--everything was gone--nothing was left."

"Oh, Jack, how I have made you suffer!"

"Suffer? Yes, I have suffered!" Overcome by the returning pain of the
memory, he dropped into a chair, trying to control his voice. "Yes, I
have suffered!"

"Forgive me!" she said, slipping on her knees beside him, and burying
her head in his lap.

"I was out of my head--I don't know what I did, what I said. It was as
though a bomb had exploded. My life was wrecked, shattered--nothing
left."

He felt the grief again, even more acutely. He suffered for what he had
suffered.

"Jack, I never really could have _abandoned_ you," she cried bitterly.
She raised her eyes toward him and suddenly took notice of the
time-tables that lay clutched in his hands. "Oh, you were going away!"

He nodded, incapable of speech.

"You were running away?"

"I was running away--to forget--to bury myself!"

"Oh, Jack!"

"There was nothing here. It was all a blank! I was running away--to bury
myself!"

At the memory of that miserable hopeless moment, in which he had
resolved on flight, the tears, no longer to be denied, came dripping
down his cheeks.




THE LIE




I


For some time they had ceased to speak, too oppressed with the needless
anguish of this their last night. At their feet the tiny shining windows
of Etretat were dropping back into the night, as though sinking under
the rise of that black, mysterious flood that came luminously from the
obscure regions of the faint sky. Overhead, the swollen August stars had
faded before the pale flush that, toward the lighthouse on the cliff,
heralded the red rise of the moon.

He held himself a little apart, the better to seize every filmy detail
of the strange woman who had come inexplicably into his life, watching
the long, languorous arms stretched out into an impulsive clasp, the
dramatic harmony of the body, the brooding head, the soft, half-revealed
line of the neck. The troubling alchemy of the night, that before his
eyes slowly mingled the earth with the sea and the sea with the sky,
seemed less mysterious than this woman whose body was as immobile as the
stillness in her soul.

All at once he felt in her, whom he had known as he had known no other,
something unknown, the coming of another woman, belonging to another
life, the life of the opera and the multitude, which would again flatter
and intoxicate her. The summer had passed without a doubt, and now, all
at once, something new came to him, indefinable, colored with the vague
terror of the night, the fear of other men who would come thronging
about her, in the other life, where he could not follow.

Around the forked promontory to the east, the lights of the little
packet-boat for England appeared, like the red cinder in a pipe,
slipping toward the horizon. It was the signal for a lover's embrace,
conceived long ago in fancy and kept in tenderness.

"Madeleine," he said, touching her arm. "There it is--our little boat."

"Ah! _le p'tit bateau_--with its funny red and green eyes."

She turned and raised her lips to his; and the kiss, which she did not
give but permitted, seemed only fraught with an ineffable sadness, the
end of all things, the tearing asunder and the numbness of separation.
She returned to her pose, her eyes fixed on the little packet, saying:

"It's late."

"Yes."

"It goes fast."

"Very."

They spoke mechanically, and then not at all. The dread of the morning
was too poignant to approach the things that must be said. Suddenly,
with the savage directness of the male to plunge into the pain which
must be undergone, he began:

"It was like poison--that kiss."

She turned, forgetting her own anguish in the pain in his voice,
murmuring, "Ben, my poor Ben."

"So you will go--to-morrow," he said bitterly, "back to the great public
that will possess you, and I shall remain--here, alone."

"It must be so."

He felt suddenly an impulse he had not felt before, an instinct to make
her suffer a little. He said brutally:

"But you want to go!"

She did not answer, but, in the obscurity, he knew her large eyes were
searching his face. He felt ashamed of what he had said, and yet because
she made no protestation, he persisted:

"You have left off your jewels, those jewels you can't do without."

"Not to-night."

"You who are never happy without them--why not to-night?"

As, carried away by the jealousy of what lay beyond, he was about to
continue, she laid her fingers on his lips, with a little brusk, nervous
movement of her shoulders.

"Don't--you don't understand."

But he understood and he resented the fact that she should have put
aside the long undulating rope of pearls, the rings of rubies and
emeralds that seemed as natural to her dark beauty as the roses to the
spring. He had tried to understand her woman's nature, to believe that
no memory yet lingered about them, to accept without question what had
never belonged longed to their life together, and remembering what he
had fought down he thought bitterly:

"She has changed me more than I have changed her. It is always so."

She moved a little, her pose, with instinctive dramatic sense, changing
with her changing mood.

"Do not think I don't understand you," she said quietly.

"What do you understand?"

"It hurts you because I wish to return."

"That is not so, Madeleine," he said abruptly. "You know what big things
I want you to do."

"I know--only you would like me to say the contrary--to protest that I
would give it all up--be content to be with you alone."

"No, not that," he said grudgingly, "and yet, this last night--here--I