"I mean it," he went on warmly. "She's too good for them--and so are
you. Mrs. Renshaw, a woman notorious even in New York, who at the age
of thirty has already changed husbands three times, drained them and
thrown them aside as one would a rotten orange; Hilda Ashhurst who
plays cards for a living and knows how to win; Crosby Downs, a
merciless voluptuary who makes a god of his belly; Archie Westcott,
the man Friday of every Western millionaire with social ambitions who
comes to New York--a man who lives by his social connections, his wits
and his looks; Carol Gouverneur, _his_ history needn't be repeated--"

"Nor mine--" finished Olga quietly, "you needn't go on." The calmness
of her tone only brought its bitterness into higher relief. Markham
stopped, turned and caught both her hands in his.

"No, not yours, Olga. God knows I didn't mean _that_. You're not
their kind, soulless, cynical, selfish and narrow social parasite who
poison what they fee don and live in the idleness that better men and
women have bought for them. Call them your crowd if you like. I know
better. You've only taken people as you've found them--taken life as
it was planned for you--moved along the line of least resistance
because you'd never been taught that there was any other way to go.
In Europe you never had a chance to learn--"

"That's it," she broke in passionately, "I never had a chance--not a
chance."

Her fingers clutched his and then quickly released them.

"Oh, what's the use?" she went on in a stifled tone. "Why couldn't you