and the latter strolled on.

In the carriage, on the way home, he broke out nervously: "I didn't
know you spoke to Varick."

Her voice trembled a little. "It's the first time--he happened to be
standing near me; I didn't know what to do. It's so awkward, meeting
everywhere--and he said you had been very kind about some business."

"That's different," said Waythorn.

She paused a moment. "I'll do just as you wish," she returned
pliantly. "I thought it would be less awkward to speak to him when
we meet."

Her pliancy was beginning to sicken him. Had she really no will of
her own--no theory about her relation to these men? She had accepted
Haskett--did she mean to accept Varick? It was "less awkward," as
she had said, and her instinct was to evade difficulties or to
circumvent them. With sudden vividness Waythorn saw how the instinct
had developed. She was "as easy as an old shoe"--a shoe that too
many feet had worn. Her elasticity was the result of tension in too
many different directions. Alice Haskett--Alice Varick--Alice
Waythorn--she had been each in turn, and had left hanging to each
name a little of her privacy, a little of her personality, a little
of the inmost self where the unknown god abides.

"Yes--it's better to speak to Varick," said Waythorn wearily.

"Earth's Martyrs." By Stephen Phillips.