“Then I’d better say what I have to say quickly.  Edith, will you marry me?”

She drew off and looked at him.

“I’d better explain what I mean,” he said, speaking with some difficulty.  “I mean—­go through the ceremony with me.  I don’t mean actual marriage.  That wouldn’t be fair to either of us, because you know that I care for some one else.”

“But you mean a real marriage?”

“Of course.  Your child has the right to a name, dear.  And, if you don’t mind telling a lie to save our souls, and for her peace of mind, we can say that it took place some time ago.”

She gazed at him dazedly.  Then something like suspicion came into her face.

“Is it because of what I told you to-night?”

“I had thought of it before.  That helped, of course.”

It seemed so surprisingly simple, put into words, and the light on the girl’s face was his answer.  A few words, so easily spoken, and two lives were saved.  No, three, for Edith’s child must be considered.

“You are like God,” said Edith, in a low voice.  “Like God.”  And fell to soft weeping.  She was unutterably happy and relieved.  She sat there, not daring to touch him, and looked out into the quiet street.  Before her she saw all the things that she had thought were gone; honor, a place in the world again, the right to look into her mother’s eyes; she saw marriage and happy, golden days.  He did not love her, but he would be hers, and perhaps in His own good time the Manager of all destinies would make him love her.  She would try so hard to deserve that.

Mrs. Boyd was asleep when at last Edith went up the staircase, and Ellen, lying sleepless on her cot in the hot attic room, heard the girl softly humming to herself as she undressed, and marveled.

CHAPTER XXXVI

When Lily had been at home for some time, and Louis Akers had made no attempt to see her, or to announce the marriage, the vigilance of the household began to relax.  Howard Cardew had already consulted the family lawyer about an annulment, and that gentleman had sent a letter to Akers, which had received no reply.

Then one afternoon Grayson, whose instructions had been absolute as to admitting Akers to the house, opened the door to Mrs. Denslow, who was calling, and found behind that lady Louis Akers himself.  He made an effort to close the door behind the lady, but Akers was too quick for him, and a scene at the moment was impossible.

He ushered Mrs. Denslow into the drawing room, and coming out, closed the doors.

“My instructions, sir, are to say to you that the ladies are not at home.”

But Akers held out his hat and gloves with so ugly a look that Grayson took them.

“I have come to see my wife,” he said.  “Tell her that, and that if she doesn’t see me here I’ll go upstairs and find her.”