Folly was being eaten away by desire.  She was growing desperate.  So were Marie and the masseuse. When a morning came that found Folly with purple shadows under her eyes their despair became terror.

“Madame,” cried Marie, “why don’t you marry him?  You’ve got to stop it.  You’ve got to stop it.  Anyway, all ways, you’ve got to stop it.  It’s a-eating of you up.  If you’re a loving of him that much, why don’t cher?”

“Loving of him!” sneered Folly.  “I—­I hate him.  No, no, that’s not true.  I don’t hate Lew, poor dear.  It’s them I hate.  And I won’t be beaten.”  She pounded her doubled knee with her fist.  “I don’t want to marry him; but if they push me, if they keep on pushing me——­”

It can be seen from the above that Lew was beginning to get on Folly’s nerves.  She had long since begun to get on his.  When they were with others it was all right; Folly was her old self.  But whenever they were alone, the same wordy battle began and never ended.  Lew grew morose, heavy.  He avoided his father, but he could do no work; so time hung on his hands, and began to rot away his fiber as only too much time can.

One day H lne sent for Leighton.

“Glen,” she said, “we’ve been playing with something bigger than merely Folly.  I saw her to-day, just a flash in Bond Street.  I saw her face.  If Lew holds out another week, she’s going to marry him, and yet, somehow, I don’t believe she loves him.  Something tells me you weren’t wrong when you said she could love nothing but just herself.”

Leighton sighed.

“I know I wasn’t wrong,” he said.  “But you are right:  she’s going to marry him.  And I’ll have to stand by and see him through.  Watch her break him up and throw him off.  And I’ll have to pick up the pieces and stick them together.  One doesn’t like to have to do that sort of thing twice.  I did it with my own life.  I don’t want to do it with Lew’s.  There are such a lot of patched lives.  I wanted him—­I wanted him—­”

H lne crossed the room quickly, and put her arms around Leighton, one hand pressing his head to her.

“Glen,” she said softly, “why, Glen!”

Leighton was not sobbing.  He was simply quivering from head to toe—­quivering so that he could not speak.  His teeth chattered.  H lne smoothed his brow and his crisp hair, shot with gray.  She soothed him.

“H lne,” he said at last, “he’s my boy.”

“Glen,” said H lne, “if you love him—­love him like that, she can’t break him up.  Don’t be frightened.  Go and find him.  Send him to me.”

Leighton did not have to look for Lew.  He had scarcely reached the flat when Lew came rushing in, a transformed Lew, radiant, throbbing with happiness.

“Dad,” he cried, “she’s said ‘Yes.’  She’s going to marry me.  Do you hear, Dad?”

“Yes, I hear,” said Leighton, dully.  Then he tossed back his head.  He would not blur Lew’s happy hour.  He held out his hand.  “I hear,” he repeated, “and I’ll—­I’ll see you through.”