Heretofore she had always left her roads of retreat open, had, in fact, availed herself of them at critical periods; but this time she had, she believed, so cluttered them that they were practically impassable and she said she “didn’t care.”

The heat and her rudderless life had been too much for her; she had, too, been honestly stirred by beautiful things—­although they were not hers nor could ever rightfully be hers.  She had slipped into the danger, that seemed now about to engulf her, on a gradual decline.

Her connection with the Burke home life was, apparently, innocent enough at first.  No one but Patricia herself sensed what really was threatening, but the conditions were ripe for what occurred.

Mrs. Burke, bent upon her own pleasure, utterly indifferent to the rights of others, was glad enough to leave her house and family to the charm of Patricia while she could, at the same time, as she smilingly declared, give a bit of happiness to that poor, gifted young creature.

The gifted young creature responded with all the hunger of her empty heart—­she played with the children, who adored her; there was safety with the eyes of housekeeper and governess upon her—­but when the eyes of a tired, disillusioned, and lonely man became fixed upon her, it was time for Patricia to flee.  But she did not.  Instead she gripped her philosophy of “grab”—­and really managed to justify it to a certain extent—­while she grew thinner and paler.

On the Sunday when Joan stopped short and wondered where Patricia was, Patricia was up the Hudson awaiting, on a charming hotel piazza, the arrival of the Burke automobile.

It was sunset time and beautiful beyond words.  Something in the peaceful loveliness stirred Patricia—­she wished that the day were dark and grim.  It seemed incongruous to take to the down path—­Patricia was not blinded by her lure—­while the whole world was flooded with gold and azure.

Then Patricia’s angel had a word to say.

“Who would care, anyway?” the girl questioned her upstanding angel—­“in all the world, who would care?  Why shouldn’t I have—­what I can get?”

And then, quite forcibly, Patricia thought of Joan!  Joan seemed calling, calling.  The thought brought a passionate yearning.  Joan had the look in her eyes that children and dogs had when they regarded Patricia—­a look that cut under the superficial disguise without seeing it, and clung to what they knew was there!  The something that they loved and trusted and played with.

In a moment Patricia felt herself growing cold and hard as if almost, but not quite, a power outside herself had threatened the one and only thing in life that she held sacred.

“That Look!” Full well Patricia knew that the Look would no longer be hers to command if she held to her course!

Then, her strength rising with her determination, she glanced back over her cluttered trail.  She had written a letter to Joan—­it would be delivered to-morrow.  A black, scorching statement that would leave not a trace of beauty for the old friendship to rest upon.  She had also written a letter to the firm in Chicago definitely refusing to accept its offer—­but that letter was not yet mailed!