Gregg felt it. "I'm his, you see; he's absolutely sure that, if I want to do anything else than marry him, because I promised to when I knew nothing—not a thing in the world—he's sure it's the result of the damage done me by father and what I did, with Mr. Rinderfeld and with you, to conceal the truth. He's determined to bring me back to what I was."
"What do you want to do, Marjorie?"
"What can I? I can't marry Billy; I can't go back to father; I can't go to mother—not without telling her everything. I couldn't stand it; I couldn't. And I won't tell her—yet. To tell her, that would make everything that's been done—your risking your life with Russell, my lie to Mr. Stanway and father's putting him out of Tri-Lake and starting the big, wonderful things he's doing—it would make everything we've done useless, mad, crazy. And it would make Billy right. I shouldn't care about that, but I do. All along he's said we have to have our frightful, terribly personal and private disgrace out for every one to see; and I've said we haven't. Yet he may be right, when father goes on with Mrs. Russell; it may be that scandal after all is the only thing which can touch him. But there must be some other way out besides scandal or coming not to care."
"You don't feel that, Marjorie?"
"That I'm coming not to care? No, Gregg; people seem to be coming that way; but they only seem, Gregg. That's all. Take Clara."
"Your hard-boiled friend?"
"Hmhm. To hear Clara talk, you'd think she was absolutely cynical; that she expected nothing and hoped for nothing of any man and mighty little of any girl. But care for honor and decency! Why, I couldn't be-
