"I can give him money. I'll go to him. He needs me!"
she said aloud. Then her whole body burned with shame.
She--Lucy Dunbar, good proper Lucy, whose conscience hurt
her if she laid her handkerchiefs away awry in her
drawer, nursing a criminal passion for a married man!

She went slowly back to the inn. "He has his wife," she
told herself. "I am nothing to him. I doubt if he would
know me if he met me on the street." She tried to go
back to her easy-going mannerly little thoughts, but
there was something strange and fierce behind them that
would not down.

Jean came presently to the salle. "I have had a letter
too," she said. "The girl who writes came from Pond
City. She was in the same atelier in Paris with
George. She says: `Your friends the Waldeaux have
come to grief by a short cut. They flung money about for
a few months as if they were backed by the Barings. The
Barings might have given their suppers. As for their
studio--there was no untidier jumble of old armor and
brasses and Spanish leather in Paris; and Mme. George
posing in the middle in soiled tea-gowns! But the
suppers suddenly stopped, and the leather and Persian
hangings went to the Jews. I met Lisa one day coming out
of the Vendome, where she had been trying to peddle a
roll of George's sketches to the rich Americans. I asked
her what was wrong, and she laughed and said, "We were
trying to make thirty francs do the work of thirty
thousand. And we have made up our minds that we know no