In these days Paul Burton found his thoughts turning often to Marcia Terroll and himself becoming more dependent on her companionship.  In her sunny courage and sparkle of repartee he found a tonic exhilaration for his own jaded spirits and an antidote for growing morbidness.  He knew that her daily rounds of the managers’ offices were fruitless, and that she walked long distances to save nickels, and in his man’s ignorance he marveled because her white gloves were always spotless and her appearance unmarked by poverty.  With more money than he could use, his impulse clamored to volunteer assistance—­and his judgment forbade the liberty.  These days of growing intimacy were troubled days for him, too.

Loraine Haswell was away and her letters kept him reminded that the purpose of her exile was ridding herself of those encumbrances which stood between them.  Yet in her absence, there was also the absence of her personal fascination, the daily renewal of her hold on his senses, and, strangely enough, he began to feel that instead of having barriers swept from the path of his love, he was being bound to a future marred by intervals of clouded misgiving.

The thought of Mary also brought him distress.  There was no policy of ostrich-blind self-comfort by which he could escape from the realization that he was indirectly a party in responsibility for the destructive menace that hung over her happiness.  His few attempts to discuss the subject with Hamilton had not been hopeful or pleasant, and he could not doubt that Edwardes would ultimately be swept into a chaos of ruin because he had opposed the irresistible onrush of his brother’s power.  He sought to persuade himself of Hamilton’s infallible wisdom and Mary’s folly of infatuation, but the only certain conviction was that of a bruised and heavy heart in his own breast.  Paul was pitiably weak, but, also, he was sensitively tender.  Love he gave and commanded with the uncalculating quality of a child.

To Marcia he had not confided any word of his status with Mrs. Haswell, but her quick intuition told her he was deeply troubled—­and her quicker sympathy responded.  Sometimes Paul longed to see Loraine, but after each visit to the tiny apartment where Marcia Terroll and a girl who drew fashion illustrations had set up their household gods, the vision of his far-away Cleopatra grew a shade dimmer and a trifle more impersonal.

Bit by bit he had pieced together a few sketchy fragments of Miss Terroll’s biography, just enough to make the wish for fuller knowledge tantalizing.  That was her maiden name, also used as a stage name, but she had been married when just out of Wellesley.  She spoke little of that episode.  Her girlhood was a pleasanter theme and its environment had been that of his own world—­full of the gaiety and sunshine that is girlhood’s inalienable right.  All these scraps of personal history filtered into their conversation; rather as incidentals than