A moment they stood so, looking into each other’s eyes, Courtland, wondering, startled, questioning.  It was Gila, of course!  Nothing else could reach the man’s soul and make him look like that!  But what had happened?  Not death!  No, not even death could bring that look of shame and degradation to his high-minded friend’s eyes.

As if Tennelly had read his question he spoke in a voice so husky with emotion that his words were scarcely audible:  “Didn’t Pat tell you?”

Courtland shook his head.

Tennelly’s head went down, as if he were waiting for courage to speak.  Then, huskily:  “She’s gone, Court!”

“Gone?”

“Left me, Court!  She sailed at daybreak for Italy with another man.”

Tennelly fumbled in his pocket and brought out a crumpled note, blistered with tears.  “Read it!” he muttered, and turned away to the window.

Courtland read: 

DEAR LEW,—­I’m sure when you come to your senses and get over some of your narrow ideas you’ll be as much relieved as I am over what I’ve decided to do.  You and I never were fitted for each other, and I can’t stand this life another day.  I’m simply perishing!  It’s up to me to do something, for I know, with your strait-laced notions, you never will!  So when you read this I shall be out of reach, on my way to Italy with Count von Bremen.  They say there’s going to be war in this country, anyway, and I hate such things, so I had to get out of it.  You won’t have any trouble in getting a divorce, and you’ll soon be glad I did it.

As for the kid, if she lives she’s much better off with you than with me, for you know I never could stand children; they get on my nerves.  And, anyhow, I never could be all the things you tried to make me, and it’s better in the end this way.  So good-by, and don’t try to come after me.  I won’t come back, no matter what you do, for I’m bored to death with the last two years and I’ve got to see some life!

GILA

Courtland read the flippant little note twice before he trusted himself to speak, and then he walked over to the window, slowly smoothing and folding the crumpled paper.  A baby’s cry in the next room pierced the air, and the father gripped the window-seat and quivered as if a bullet had struck him.

Courtland put his hand lovingly within his friend’s arm:  “Nelly, old fellow,” he said, “you know that I feel with you—­”

“I know, Court!” with a weary sigh.  “That’s why I sent for you.  I had to have you, somehow!”

“Nelly!  There aren’t any words made delicate enough to handle this thing without hurting.  It’s raw flesh and full of nerves.  There’s just One can do anything here!  I wish you believed in God!”

“I do!” said Tennelly, in a dreary tone.

“He can come near you and give you strength to bear it.  I know, for He did it for me once!”

Courtland felt as if his words were falling on deaf ears, but Tennelly, after a pause, asked, bitterly: