that had been fed upon solitude, upon the dreariness in which she spent
her mere calendared days. Her eyes were sombrely glowing, dark with
pain; and Keith was leaning towards her as he might have leant towards
any girl who was half fainting. She could have cried, but that she was
too proud to cry. She was not Emmy, who cried. She was Jenny Blanchard,
who had come upon this fool's trip because a force stronger than her
pride had bidden her to forsake all but the impulse of her love. And
Keith, secure and confident, was coolly, as it were, disentangling
himself from the claim she had upon him by virtue of her love. It seemed
to Jenny that he was holding her at a distance. Nothing could have hurt
her more. It shamed her to think that Keith might suspect her honesty
and her unselfishness. When she had thought of nothing but her love and
the possibility of his own.

She read now, in this moment of descent into misery, a dreadful blunder
made by her own overweening eagerness. She saw Keith, alone, thinking
that he would be at a loss to fill his time, suddenly remembering her,
thinking in a rather contemptuous way of their days together, and
supposing that she would do as well as another for an hour's talk to
keep him from a stagnant evening. If that were so, good-bye to her
dreams. If she were no more to him than that there was no hope left in
her life. For Keith might ply from port to port, seeing in her only one
girl for his amusement; but he had spoilt her for another man. No other
man could escape the withering comparison with Keith. To Jenny he was a
king among men, incomparable; and if he did not love her, then the proud
Jenny Blanchard, who unhesitatingly saw life and character with an
immovable reserve, was the merest trivial legend of Kennington Park. She
was like every other girl, secure in her complacent belief that she
could win love--until the years crept by, and no love came, and she must
eagerly seek to accept whatever travesty of love sidled within the