to think. It was the first chance I had had, for even Helen now had
become Jerry--by reflection.

The more I thought, the more frightened, dismayed, and despairing I
became. In the clear light of calm, sane reasoning, it was all so
absurd, so impossible! What could I have been thinking of?

Of Jerry, of course.

With hot cheeks I answered my own question. And even the thought of
him then cast the spell of his presence about me, and again I was back
in the whirl of dining and dancing and motoring, with his dear face
at my side. Of Jerry; yes, of Jerry I was thinking. But I must forget
Jerry.

I pictured Jerry in Andersonville, in my own home. I tried to picture
him talking to Father, to Mother.

Absurd! What had Jerry to do with learned treatises on stars, or with
the humdrum, everyday life of a stupid small town? For that matter,
what had Father and Mother to do with dancing and motoring and
painting society queens' portraits? Nothing.

Plainly, even if Jerry, for the sake of the daughter, liked Father and
Mother, Father and Mother certainly would not like Jerry. That was
certain.

Of course I cried myself to sleep that night. That was to be expected.
Jerry was the world; and the world was lost. There was nothing left
except, perhaps, a few remnants and pieces, scarcely worth the