"Yes."

"To a cable of yours?"

"Sent three days ago."

The answers she received were clear, unhesitating. It was a voice from a
rock speaking! So utterly mistaken was she; and so completely Luttrell
bent every nerve to the service of shortening the hour of misery. The
appalling moment was then actually upon her. She had foreseen it--so she
thought. But it caught her nevertheless unprepared as death catches a
sinner on his bed.

She stared at the telegrams--not reading them. His arguments and
prefaces--the Olympic Games, Discipline and the rest of it--what she had
caught of them, she blew away as so much froth. She dived to the
personal reason.

"You are tired of me."

"No," Luttrell answered hotly. "That's not true--not even a half-truth.
If I were tired of you, it would all be so easy, so brutally easy."

"But you are!" Her voice rose shrill in its violence. "You know you are
but you are too much of a coward to say so--oh, like all men!" and as
Luttrell turned to her a face startled by her outcry and uttered a
remonstrant "Hush!", she continued bitterly, "What do I care if they all
hear? I am impossible! You know that, don't you? I am quite impossible!
I have gone my own way. I am one of the people you hate--one of the