own blood, the one door she has left open will some day be slammed in
her own face."

"And then--?"

"Then the other doors will swing ajar, turning slowly on rusty hinges,
but the women for whom they are opened will never cross the threshold
again."

"Why?"

"Because they have ceased to care. There is nothing so dead as a woman's
dead love. When the fire goes out and no single ember is left, the ashes
are past the power of flame to rekindle."

"Do you think that, after a while, I won't care for Romie any more?"

"Not as you used to--that is impossible even now."

Juliet sighed and hastily wiped away a tear. With a quick, sure stroke,
her life seemed to have been divided.

"Don't, dear. Remember what you have had. I often think a woman has
crossed the line between youth and maturity, when she begins to put
away, in the lavender of memory, the lovely things she has had--and is
never to have again. The after years are made up, so many times, of
things one has had--rounded off and put away forever."

"I know," returned Juliet, with a far-away look in her eyes. "I remember
the day I grew up--almost the hour. It was the day I came here."