all inspired by the soul of fervour, all ennobled by the spirit of
truth that lies back of the major premise that a woman should cleave
to a man, forsaking all others. Orde sat back in his chair, his
eyes vacant, his pen all but falling from his hand. He did not
finish the letter to his mother. After a while he went upstairs to
his own room.

The fever of the argument coursed through his veins all that long
night. Over and over again he rehearsed it in wearisome repetition
until it had assumed a certain and almost invariable form. And when
he had reached the end of his pleading he began it over again, until
the daylight found him weary and fevered. He arose and dressed
himself. He could eat no breakfast. By a tremendous effort of the
will he restrained himself from going over to Ninth Street until the
middle of the morning.

He entered the drawing-room to find her seated at the piano. His
heart bounded, and for an instant he stood still, summoning his
forces to the struggle for which he had so painfully gathered his
ammunition. She did not look up as he approached until he stood
almost at her shoulder. Then she turned to him and held out both
her hands.

"It is no use, Jack," she said. "I care for you too much. I will
marry you whenever you say."



XIX