“More buyers have been to her studio,” Beth said.  “You see, Torvin can do anything.  A whisper from him and they buy.  The Grey One has disposed of several of her little things at her vogue prices——­”

“I’m glad,” said Bedient.

“It came in the nick of time.  It means more than money or pictures.  Margie Grey has won her race.”

“I understand,” he added.

After supper, they walked together outside.  With her whole heart Beth prayed that the day had changed him from going.  She had put off until the last moment any talk that would bring his answer.  And now walking with him in the darkness, she thought strangely of her parting with the Other.  All was forgotten save that moment of parting; all the old intimacies had dropped from mind, banished by the sunlit god she had met this day....  Bedient’s defect would be quite as intrinsic as the Other’s—­if he went to Wordling now.  She could have forgiven a boyish carelessness in either, but Beth could not forgive in any man that unfinished humanity which has a love-token for the obviously common and sensuous....  She was ill with terror and tension.  And how pitifully human she was!  A greater faith or a lesser strength would have saved her.  Beth failed in the first.  It was her madness; her mortal enemy—­this pride.

“I doubt if there could be such another day of June,” she observed at last, wondering if he caught the hard note in her voice....  This would bring his word.  She would cry aloud with happiness—­if the day had changed him.

“To-morrow——­” he answered.  “Beth, is there anything to prevent to-morrow——?”

“Riding together?”

“Yes.”

“Not to-morrow.  The horses had better rest a day.  We must have done twenty-five miles to-day....  But early next week——­”

She had turned away, as one averts the face from disaster.  Even had she not turned from him, it was too dark to see his queer troubled smile, as he said: 

“Monday, I go away.  It’s that ocean matter.  Three days will finish it, I’m sure.”

So this was her answer.  Beth of the bestowals had not prevailed.  This was the inner uprooting.  Love-lady she had been—­love-lady of thrilling arts this day—­and yet his determination to go to the other was not altered....  She would not show him tears of rage and jealousy.  She would not see him again.  She meant to show him that the day had not stormed her heart of hearts.  Her spirit was torn, and she was not above hurting him....  “Three days will finish it, I’m sure.”  To her the sentence had the clang of a prison door....  It was through the Other that she proceeded now....  How he had struck her through another!....