As a wind may veer without warning, the current of Paul Burton’s emotions shifted.  While wishing to deny and argue, he knew that what she told him was true.  He had entered the house with no thought of love-making.  Had she accepted his protestations at their face value, he would have left it shaken with an agony of doubt and misgiving.  After all he had sworn his love first to Loraine.  He had permitted her to separate from her husband on the assumption that his own allegiance would hold.  Could a man truly love two women at the same time, he wondered.  Whatever he did he must appear a weak fool.  The fact that this phase of the matter presented itself for consideration at this time proved only that it was Paul Burton who found himself in the situation.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted brokenly.  “I know only that I would like to be happy, if it’s humanly possible, and I’d give anything on earth to see you happy.  At least you believe that much, dear, don’t you?”

She nodded.  “Yes,” she said, “I believe—­that much.”

Then after a few moments she continued seriously: 

“We have been trusting ourselves on quicksands, Paul, and between us we’ve done one wise thing.  We’ve discovered it in time.  Maybe it would be still wiser now to be really frank for once and then to be very careful afterwards.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“I divined your unhappiness, and I knew my own—­for a long time I’ve known my own.  You have been petted and praised by women—­women of that world which was once mine.  You say I love you.  Do you know why—?” She wheeled suddenly and spoke without disguise.  “Not because you are a great musician or a celebrity.  It is because I realize how weak and foolish and helpless you are.”  The man winced, but she went on steadily.  “In all woman-love there is a ruling element of mother-love.  I wanted to take you into my heart and make you happy, to ... to give you all a woman can give a man.”

He came forward and his words were unsteady.

“You can at least let me be your best and closest friend—­”

“No.  I doubt if men and women can really be friends.  It comes to mean too much—­or too little.”

“But, Marcia—­”

Again she interrupted and again the voice was monotonous, almost lifeless.

“No, dear.  All our silly little jokes—­things that have come to be dear little traditions between us—­would be mockeries now.”  She raised her chin, and said suddenly, with a forced laugh:  “I don’t often have these brain-storms.  They make me very foolish.  We must see less of each other, Paul.”

“And yet,” he stubbornly argued, “it has been only an hour since the basis of our comradeship was secure enough.”

“In that hour we have come a long way, dear.  It’s going to be hard enough to get back as it is.”

She stood still and, after a brief silence, spoke once more.