pacing the room; and since there was no one who appeared to have any
interest in what he might say, he began muttering to himself. I
would catch a phrase: "The fate of woman!" And again: "The price of
life!" I would hear the terrible, explosive wail:
"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" And it would wring a cry out of the depths of
Carpenter's soul: "Oh, have mercy!"

In the beginning, the moving picture critic of the Western City
"Times" had made some effort to restrain his amusement. But as this
performance went on, his face became one enormous, wide-spreading
grin; and you can understand, that made him seem quite devilish. I
saw that Carpenter was more and more goaded by it. He would look at
Rosythe, and then he would turn away in aversion. But at last he
made an effort to conquer his feelings, and went up to the critic,
and said, gently: "My friend: for every man who lives on earth, some
woman has paid the price of life."

"The price of life?" repeated the critic, puzzled.

Carpenter waved his hand towards the door. "We confront this
everlasting mystery, this everlasting terror; and it is not becoming
that you should mock."

The grin faded from the other's face. His brows wrinkled, and he
said: "I don't get you, friend. What can a man do?"

"At least he can bow his heart; he can pay his tribute to
womanhood."

"You're too much for me," responded Rosythe. "The imbeciles choose