There was but one thing shorter lived than his repentance she knew, and
that was the sentiment of which he was charitably supposed to have
repented. By nature he was designed a lover, and it seemed, broadly
viewed, the merest accident of circumstances that he should tend toward
variety rather than toward specialisation.

A man passing in the street bowed to her as the cab turned a corner,
and, as she recognised Arnold Kemper, she wondered vaguely if he had
aught in common with his cousin. A slight resemblance to Perry Bridewell
offended her as she recalled it, and, while her resentful sympathy flew
to Gerty, she felt almost vindictive against the masculine type he
appeared physically to represent.

"O Lord, keep me apart!" she prayed fervently, as she had prayed in the
night, for it appeared to her that the shield of faith was the one
shield for the spirit against the besieging vanities of life. Gerty's
faith had fallen from her long ago, and, as she remembered this, Laura
felt a jealous impulse to snatch her friend away from the restless
worldliness and the inordinate desires. The pitiable soul of Gerty
showed to her suddenly as a stunted and famished city child struggling
for life in an atmosphere which carried the taint of death, and in her
imagination the picture was so vivid that she saw the face of the child
turned toward her with a wistful, imploring look.

The cab stopped with a jerk, and in a little while she was knocking
softly at the closed door of Gerty's chamber. Almost immediately it
opened and the French maid came out.

"Madame is ill with a headache," she explained, pointing to the closed
shutters, "she refuses to eat."