out how ridiculous it all is. What's the use of formulating a charge that they can never, never prove?"
"Unless," he reminded her hesitatingly, "Beatrice—"
"Beatrice! You're not afraid of her?"
"I am afraid of no one or anything," he declared, "when you are here! But Beatrice has been behaving strangely ever since she arrived. She has a sudden fancy for remembering that in a sense we were once engaged."
"Beatrice," Elizabeth announced, "must be satisfied with her twenty thousand pounds. I know what you are trying to say—she wants you. She shan't have you, Philip! We'll find her some one else. We'll be kind to her—I don't mind that. Very soon we'll find her plenty of friends. But as for you, Philip—well, she just shan't have you, and that's all there is about it."
He took her suddenly into his arms. In that moment he was the lover she had craved for—strong, passionate, and reckless.
"All the love that my heart has ever known," he cried, "is yours, Elizabeth! Every thought and every hope is yours. You are my life. You saved me—you made me what I am. The play is yours, my brain is yours, there isn't a thought or a dream or a wish that isn't for you—of you—yours!"
He kissed her as he had never dreamed of kissing any woman. It was the one supreme moment of their life and their love. Time passed uncounted. …
Then interruption came, suddenly and tragically. Without knock or ring, the door was flung open and slammed again. Beatrice stood there, still in her
