for life—­her life—­across the trackless desert.  It all came before him in unnatural vividness, seemingly as though each separate scene had been painted across that black sky without.  Then he perceived the great playhouse he had just left, the glorious glitter of lights, the reverberation of applause, the cheering mob of men and women, and her—­her bowing and smiling at them, her dark eyes dancing with happiness and ignoring him utterly, her whole body trembling to the intoxication of success.  Oh, it was all over; even if there had been no gulf of death between them, it was all over.  She had deliberately chosen to forget, under the inspiration of her art she had forgotten.  It had usurped her thought, her ambition, her every energy.  She had won her way through the throng, yet the very struggle of such winning had sufficed to crowd him out from memory had left the past as barren as was the desert amid the dreariness of which they had parted.  He set his teeth hard, striking his clenched fist against the cushioned arm of the chair.  Then he sat silent, his cigar extinguished.  Once he glanced at his watch, but already the hour was too late for any hope of catching the west-bound train, and he dropped it back in his pocket, and sat motionless.  Suddenly some one rapped upon the outside door.  It would be Craig, probably, and he called out a regretful “Come in.”  A bell-boy stood there, his buttoned-up figure silhouetted against the lights in the hall.

“Lady in Parlor D asked me to hand you this, sir,” the boy said.

He accepted the slight bit of paper, scarcely comprehending what it could all mean, turned on an electric bulb over the dresser, and looked at it.  A single line of delicate writing confronted him, so faint that he was compelled to bend closer to decipher:  “If you are waiting my word, I send it.”

He caught at the dresser-top as though some one had struck him, staring down at the card in his hand, and then around the silent room, his breath grown rapid.  At first the words were almost meaningless; then the blood came surging up into his face, and he walked toward the door.  There he paused, his hand already upon the knob.  What use?  What use?  Why should he seek her, even although she bade him come?  She might no longer care, but he did; to her such a meeting might be only a mere incident, an experience to be lightly talked over, but to him such an interview could only prove continual torture.  But no!  The thought wronged her; such an action would not be possible to Beth Norvell.  If she despatched this message it had been done honestly, done graciously.  He would show himself a craven if he failed to face whatever awaited him below.  With tightly compressed lips, he closed the door, and walked to the elevator.

She stood waiting him alone, slightly within the parlor door, her cheeks flushed, her red lips parted in an attempt to smile.  With a single glance he saw her as of old, supremely happy, her dark eyes clear, her slender form swaying slightly toward him as if in welcome.  For an instant their gaze met, his full of uncertainty, hers of confidence; then she stretched out to him her two ungloved hands.