Her intellect had faltered; the Shadowy Sister had betrayed; David Cairns had been consummately stupid; Vina Nettleton was soft with dreams, and not to be reckoned with in the world; Vina could tell her woes, but she, Beth Truba, must not scream nor fall.  She must face the woman in the other room, sit across a lighted table for an hour, and talk and laugh.  Her heart cried out against this, but pride uprose to whip—­Beth’s iron pride finished under the world’s mastery.  Slowly, rhythmically, the blows fell.  Beth could not run away.

She stretched out her fingers, which were biting into her palms, drenched her face with cold water, breathed for a minute by the open window like a doe in covert....  There was ammonia, and she inhaled the potent fumes....

     “Pale hands I loved
      Beside the Shalimar——­”

hummed the Grey One, from the open sheet on the piano.

Beth faltered at the door, for the song hurled her back to an hour ago with bruising force.  She re-entered the little room—­to fix her hat....

“You weren’t long, Beth,” the Grey One said.

“No?...  I’m glad of that, but speaking of glad things, let us not forget Torvin.”

Beth was already turning out the lights.

“You look a little tired, dear,” the Grey One said in the elevator.

“It’s the time of day,” Beth responded readily.  After being in all day, and suddenly deciding to go out, haven’t you felt a tension come over you as if you could hardly wait a minute?”

“Many times, dear, as if one must snatch hat and gloves and get into the street at any cost.”

* * * * *

Beth came in alone about ten, sighed as the latch clicked, and sat down in the dark.  But she rose again in a moment, for she didn’t like the dark.  She was worn out, even physically; and yet it was different now from the first reaction.  Bedient had not continued to fit so readily to commonness, as in those first implacable moments in the little room.  He had never judged anyone in her presence; had spoken well of everyone, even of Mrs. Wordling.  He was no intimidated New Yorker, who felt he must conduct himself for the eyes of others.

Mrs. Wordling had not shown the quality to hold the fancy position she aspired to, in the little circle of artists at the Club; and retaliated by showing her power over the lion of this circle.  She had challenged him to cross the street, knowing they would be locked in and that the Club would hear.  She had desired this, having nothing to lose.  For fear the Grey One had not heard, she had told the story.  The recent agony in the little room was great, above the Wordling’s expectations....  And now Beth faltered.  Had Andrew Bedient asked her to join him somewhere on the shore?  She could not see him asking this; and yet, regarded as a fiction plunge, it seemed bigger and more formidable than Wordling could devise.