ness of fiber as other women acquired it, in the school of suffering. Well, so be it.
And today she was matriculating in that school, while he appeared to be in for some sort of post-graduate course himself. They would be separated and yet in a way they would be together—in suffering. There was a kind of sad satisfaction in that. Instead of despair, hope grew in his breast. Even her angry sobbings proved how much she loved him. But she had told him to go.
"Good-by, Billie," he said huskily, hoping she would favor him with the glint of a tear-filled eye, summon him to her perhaps, for one last embrace—a touch of her hand at least. But she did not. Her face was still from him and she flirted a shoulder irritably. "Just . . . good-by," he faltered, disappointed; then ventured to add with solemn hopefulness: "You and your father will see this thing right pretty soon, and then you'll see me right. Until then—I can wait."
"Fool!" she flung at him again, out of her tears. "Fool!" And he had to go without a touch, a look even, with that word ringing in his ears. Still he went in hope, unable to believe that he had lost her. He thought that he had made sure of her rather. Love—love like theirs might even be stabbed through the heart and yet it would pulse on and on, he told himself.
And it was true that the minute his presence had cleared the room, Billie was sitting bolt upright and frowning intently through her tears. "What's got into him?" she asked herself. "Some influence . . . somebody . . . I wonder if it could be that. . . . But, no! He loves me," she exulted;" he loves me! Love must save him. I must be firm with him—firm. O
