long time by her window, looking out. Instead of the city lights,
however, she saw a range of snow-capped mountains, and sheltered at
their foot the Clark ranch house, built by the old millionaire as
a place of occasional refuge from the pressure of his life. There
he had raised his fine horses, and trained them for the track.
There, when late in life he married, he had taken his wife for their
honeymoon and two years later, for the birth of their son. And
there, when she died, he had returned with the child, himself broken
and prematurely aged, to be killed by one of his own stallions when
the boy was fifteen.

Six years his own master, Judson had been twenty-one to her twenty,
when she first met him. Going the usual pace, too, and throwing
money right and left. He had financed her as a star, ransacking
Europe for her stage properties, and then he fell in love with her.
She shivered as she remembered it. It had been desperate and
terrible, because she had cared for some one else.

Standing by the window, she wondered as she had done over and over
again for ten years, what would have happened if, instead of marrying
Howard, she had married Judson Clark? Would he have settled down?
She had felt sometimes that in his wildest moments he was only
playing a game that amused him; that the hard-headed part of him
inherited from his father sometimes stood off and watched, with a
sort of interested detachment, the follies of the other. That he
played his wild game with his tongue in his cheek.

She left the window, turned out the lights and got into her bed.
She was depressed and lonely, and she cried a little. After a time
she remembered that she had not put any cream on her face. She