Frona was up to her old trick,—­their common one,—­and her hand slid down Lucile’s arm till hand clasped in hand.  “You say things which I feel are wrong, yet may not answer.  I can, but how dare I?  I dare not put mere thoughts against your facts.  I, who have lived so little, cannot in theory give the lie to you who have lived so much—­”

“’For he who lives more lives than one, more lives than one must die.’”

From out of her pain, Lucile spoke the words of her pain, and Frona, throwing arms about her, sobbed on her breast in understanding.  As for Lucile, the slight nervous ingathering of the brows above her eyes smoothed out, and she pressed the kiss of motherhood, lightly and secretly, on the other’s hair.  For a space,—­then the brows ingathered, the lips drew firm, and she put Frona from her.

“You are going to marry Gregory St. Vincent?”

Frona was startled.  It was only a fortnight old, and not a word had been breathed.  “How do you know?”

“You have answered.”  Lucile watched Frona’s open face and the bold running advertisement, and felt as the skilled fencer who fronts a tyro, weak of wrist, each opening naked to his hand.  “How do I know?” She laughed harshly.  “When a man leaves one’s arms suddenly, lips wet with last kisses and mouth areek with last lies!”

“And—?”

“Forgets the way back to those arms.”

“So?” The blood of the Welse pounded up, and like a hot sun dried the mists from her eyes and left them flashing.  “Then that is why you came.  I could have guessed it had I given second thought to Dawson’s gossip.”

“It is not too late.”  Lucile’s lip curled.  “And it is your way.”

“And I am mindful.  What is it?  Do you intend telling me what he has done, what he has been to you.  Let me say that it is useless.  He is a man, as you and I are women.”

“No,” Lucile lied, swallowing her astonishment.

“I had not thought that any action of his would affect you.  I knew you were too great for that.  But—­have you considered me?”

Frona caught her breath for a moment.  Then she straightened out her arms to hold the man in challenge to the arms of Lucile.

“Your father over again,” Lucile exclaimed.  “Oh, you impossible Welses!”

“But he is not worthy of you, Frona Welse,” she continued; “of me, yes.  He is not a nice man, a great man, nor a good.  His love cannot match with yours.  Bah!  He does not possess love; passion, of one sort and another, is the best he may lay claim to.  That you do not want.  It is all, at the best, he can give you.  And you, pray what may you give him?  Yourself?  A prodigious waste!  But your father’s yellow—­”

“Don’t go on, or I shall refuse to listen.  It is wrong of you.”  So Frona made her cease, and then, with bold inconsistency, “And what may the woman Lucile give him?”

“Some few wild moments,” was the prompt response; “a burning burst of happiness, and the regrets of hell—­which latter he deserves, as do I. So the balance is maintained, and all is well.”