what you would have become, in any case."

"Lawrence!"

Already he hated the memory of his words. True or not, they were spoken
to a woman who was cowering under them as under a lash. He was at a
disadvantage now. If she had met him with anger they might have cried
quits. But he had seen her wince, seen her sudden pallor, and it was not
a pleasant sight.

"Forgive me," he said. "I do not know quite what I am saying. You have
broken a compact which I had hoped might have lasted all our days. Let us
be better friends, if you will, but let us keep that promise which we
made to one another."

"It was so many years ago," she said, in a low tone. "I am afraid to
think how many. It makes me lonely, Lawrence, to look ahead. I am afraid
of growing old!"

He looked at her steadily. Yes, the signs were there. She was a
good-looking woman to-day, a handsome woman in some lights, but she had
reached the limit. It was a matter of a few years at most, and then--He
stood with his hands behind his back.

"It is a fear which we must all share," he said, quietly. "The only
antidote is work."

"Work!" she repeated, scornfully. "That is the man's resource. What about
us? What about me?"