“No,” the Flopper answered, circling his lips with his tongue again.  “No; I ain’t seen de Doc since—­but I seen Pale Face.  Say, Helena”—­the Flopper’s words came stumbling out now, agitated, perturbed, not altogether coherent—­“wot’s de answer I dunno; I dunno wot’s de matter here.  Say”—­he pointed suddenly to the Patriarch, whose face was turned toward them as he stroked thoughtfully at his silver beard—­“he’s got me fer fair—­dere ain’t no fake here—­dis way ter live is de real t’ing—­he ain’t like you an’ me—­he’s more’n dat—­look at him now—­youse’d t’ink he could see us, an’ was listenin’ ter wot we said.  I dunno wot’s de end—­I dunno wot’s de matter wid me.  I was scared more’n ever out dere dis afternoon on de lawn, an’ I thought mabbe God ’ud strike me dead—­but ’tain’t only dat I’m scared ter buck de game any more, ’tain’t only dat—­I don’t wanter any more, an’ it don’t make no difference about de dough—­I wanter live straight, same as him, same as de guys around here, same—­same as Mamie.  Say, Helena, say, do youse believe in love—­in—­in de real t’ing?”

Helena’s apathy was gone now—­a flush dyed her cheeks.  She was not startled at what the Flopper had said—­she had seen it coming, subconsciously, vaguely, mistily, for days now, only she had been immersed in herself—­she was not startled, and yet, in a way, she was.  The end!  She too had been thinking about that—­and she too did not know.  What was the end?

“You were going to say something about Pale Face,” she said, prompting the Flopper.  “Something about Pale Face and Doc.”

“Yes,” said the Flopper, and again the tip of his tongue sought his lips nervously.  “Dat’s why I don’t want youse ter go out wid Thornton ter-night.  Pale Face has got it de same as me, an’ he told de Doc dis afternoon, out in de path dere, after de Doc left de cottage here.  Dere was a showdown—­see?  De Doc ‘ud kill youse an’ Thornton ter-night if he caught youse ter-gether.  He’s like a wild man.  When Pale Face tells him he was goin’ ter quit, de Doc makes a grab fer him by de t’roat like a tiger, only Pale Face gets away, an’ den de Doc goes off widout a word, laughin’ like he’d escaped out of a dippy-house.  An’ Pale Face was shakin’ like he had a fit when he gets here.  Say, Helena, don’t youse go ter-night.”

Helena made no answer for a moment.  Thoughts, a world of them, confused her, crowded upon her, as they had ever since Madison had left her room a few hours ago—­and the future was as some dread, bewildering maze through which she had tried to stumble and grope her way—­and had lost herself ever deeper.  How full of utter, miserable, bitter irony it was that this thing, unscrupulous and shameful, that they had created in their guilt should have brought the beauty and the glory and the yearning of a new life to her—­and yet should chain her remorselessly to the old!  True, she had broken with Madison, irrevocably, forever, she supposed, it could not be