bridge and be, as Alice had called it, honest, and as Gilbert had
said, to play the game. But it was far from easy when he stood in
the middle of the room in the glare of the light, with something all
about him that froze her words and made her self-conscious and
timid. And yet a clear, unmistakable voice urged her to have courage
and make her confession, say that she was sorry for having been a
feather-brained little fool and ask him to forgive--to win him back,
if--if she hadn't already lost him.

But she blundered into an answer and spoke flippantly from
nervousness. "Because it's rather soon to become a grass widow, and
I want you to be seen with me somewhere to-morrow."

That was all, then. She was only amusing herself. It was a case of
"Horse, horse, play with me!"--the other horses being otherwise
occupied. She wasn't serious. He needn't have come. "I can't," he
said. "I'm sorry, but I'm going out of town."

She saw him look at the clock on the mantelshelf and crinkle up his
forehead. Day must be stretching itself somewhere. She got up,
quickly. How could she say it? She was losing him.

"Are you angry with me, Marty?" she asked, trying to fumble her way
to honesty.

"No, Joan. But it's very late. You ought to be in bed."

"Didn't you think that I should miss you while you've been away?"

"No, Joan. Look. It's half-past two. A kid like you ought to have