“Oh, pshaw!  I don’t believe it at all,” cried young Haight, impatiently.  “I believe that a girl is born with a natural intuitive purity that will lead her to protect her virtue just as instinctively as she would dodge a blow; if she wants to go wrong she will have to make an effort herself to overcome that instinct.”

“And if she don’t,” cried Vandover eagerly, “if she don’t—­if she don’t protect her virtue, I say a man has a right to go as far with her as he can.”

“If he don’t, some one else will,” said Geary.

“Ah, you can’t get around it that way,” answered young Haight, smiling.  “It’s a man’s duty to protect a girl, even if he has to protect her against herself.”

When he got home that night Vandover thought over this remark of young Haight’s and in its light reviewed what had occurred in the room at the Imperial.  He felt aroused, nervous, miserably anxious.  At length he tried to dismiss the subject from his mind; he woke up his drowsing grate fire, punching it with the poker, talking to it, saying, “Wake up there, you!” When he was undressed, he sat down before it in his bathrobe, absorbing its heat luxuriously, musing into the coals, scratching himself as was his custom.  But for all that he fretted nervously and did not sleep well that night.

Next morning he took his bath.  Vandover enjoyed his bath and usually spent two or three hours over it.  When the water was very warm he got into it with his novel on a rack in front of him and a box of chocolates conveniently near.  Here he stayed, for over an hour, eating and reading, and occasionally smoking a cigarette, until at length the enervating heat of the steam gradually overcame him and he dropped off to sleep.

On this particular morning between nine and ten Geary called, and as was his custom came right up to Vandover’s room.  Mr. Corkle, lying on the wolfskin in the bay window, jumped up with a gruff bark, but, recognizing him, came up wiggling his short tail.  Geary saw Vandover’s clothes thrown about the floor and the closed door of the bathroom.

“Hey, Van!” he called.  “It’s Charlie Geary.  Are you taking a bath?”

“Hello!  What?  Who is it?” came from behind the door.  “Oh, is that you, Charlie?  Hello! how are you?  Yes, I’m taking a bath.  I must have been asleep.  Wait a minute; I’ll be out.”

“No, I can’t stop,” answered Geary.  “I’ve an appointment downtown; overslept myself, and had to go without my breakfast; makes me feel all broke up.  I’ll get something at the Grillroom about eleven; a steak, I guess.  But that isn’t what I came to say.  Ida Wade has killed herself!  Isn’t it fearful?  I thought I’d drop in on my way downtown and speak to you about it.  It’s dreadful!  It’s all in the morning papers.  She must have been out of her head.”

“What is it—­what has she done?” came back Vandover’s voice.  “Papers—­I haven’t seen—­what has she done?  Tell me—­what has she done?”