But she shook her head.  “It’s good of you,” she said and her cheeks flushed.  “But I’d rather you didn’t.  I’m going by the people’s chariot—­the subway.”  She was not yet quite able to conquer the old pride that remained from the old life.  She shrunk from showing him the meanness of her quarters; she who had reigned and been toasted and lived in the exclusive aloofness of the favored few, and who now faced starvation.  So he parted from her at the nearest kiosk of the underground.

* * * * *

It would be a pleasant thing to paint the rehabilitation of Paul Burton, showing how the underlying qualities of manhood rose in adversity as they had never risen in opulence, and how love transformed him from a weakling into a hero.  But veracity intervenes.  In childhood his character had lacked stamina, and in manhood a hot-house atmosphere had stifled even what had been there in the beginning.  For a short time after he had seen Marcia Terroll he fought the world and his own terrible weakness with such a resolution that he utterly burned up and consumed what spirit of combat was left within him.  Perhaps the recording angel, counting not only results but handicaps, wrote on the great ledger of human balances a generous merit mark for even that brief struggle.

Paul was like a weak swimmer in a strong undertow.  He battled hard and if he could not battle long it was because the measure of his strength was not a matter of his own choosing.  For a while he held a position as organist in a church—­and during those days he brought home the only revenue which came in.  But that did not last.  The truth must be told.  Paul’s fastidious spirit sickened at the sordid and tawdry, and when he discovered one day, through the unkind offices of a vagabond violinist, that it was possible to reconstruct a dream world, even in the midst of want and poverty, his hunger for tranquillity triumphed over his resolve.  With a hypodermic needle he picked the lock—­and threw open the gate of dreams.  To himself he said that it was only a temporary indulgence, to be put aside when he had conquered the agonies of that sleeplessness which had of late tortured him.  Mary, deprived of his aid, fought on alone, with all the fighting courage of the Burton blood at its best—­and fought hopelessly.

Elizabeth Burton could not be left alone.  Her mind had crumbled into such pitiful decay that her care chained the daughter in a rigorous confinement.  Now even the opportunity for seeking employment was denied her.

The ruin of the Burton family was as total and complete as if fate were bent on tallying measure for measure their past magnificence.  The quarters which Yamuro had chosen were given up and lodgings taken of a far meaner sort.

If Mary needed a final twisting of the knife in her wounded life it came when there stood between them and the streets a single asset, and she went to realize on that, haggling with a pawnbroker over her engagement ring.