most consistent expression, was a kind of passionate justice--the
intuitive feminine justness that is so much rarer than a reasoned
impartiality. Circumstances had tragically combined to develop
this instinct into a conscious habit. She had seen more than most
girls of the shabby side of life, of the perpetual tendency of
want to cramp the noblest attitude. Poverty and misfortune had
overhung her childhood and she had none of the pretty delusions
about life that are supposed to be the crowning grace of girlhood.
This very competence, which gave her a touching reasonableness,
made Glennard's situation more difficult than if he had aspired to
a princess bred in the purple. Between them they asked so little--
they knew so well how to make that little do--but they understood
also, and she especially did not for a moment let him forget, that
without that little the future they dreamed of was impossible.

The sight of her photograph quickened Glennard's exasperation. He
was sick and ashamed of the part he was playing. He had loved her
now for two years, with the tranquil tenderness that gathers depth
and volume as it nears fulfilment; he knew that she would wait for
him--but the certitude was an added pang. There are times when
the constancy of the woman one cannot marry is almost as trying as
that of the woman one does not want to.

Glennard turned up his reading-lamp and stirred the fire. He had
a long evening before him and he wanted to crowd out thought with
action. He had brought some papers from his office and he spread
them out on his table and squared himself to the task. . . .

It must have been an hour later that he found himself
automatically fitting a key into a locked drawer. He had no more