Her husband, a thin, tall man, prematurely gray, was pacing the
floor nervously, his hands plunged deep in his coat pockets. He
cleared his throat several times before he spoke. His voice was
sharp, and his words were delivered quickly:

"It's come to this, Margaret--I'm very sorry to have to tell you,
but things have finally reached the point where it's--it's got to
come out! Bannister and I have been nursing it along; we've done all
that we could. I went down to Washington and saw Peterson, but it's
no use! We turn it all over--the whole thing--to the creditors to-
morrow!" His voice rose suddenly; it was shocking to see the control
suddenly fail. "I tell you it's all up, Margaret! It's the end of
me! I won't face it!"

He dropped into a chair, but suddenly sprang up again, and began to
walk about the room.

"Now, you can do just what you think wise," he resumed presently, in
the advisory, quiet tones he usually used to her. "You can always
have the income of your Park Avenue house; your Aunt Paul will be
glad enough to go abroad with you, and there are personal things--
the house silver and the books--that you can claim. I've lain awake
nights planning--" His voice shook again, but he gained his calm
after a moment. "I want to ask you not to work yourself up over it,"
he added.

There was a silence. Margaret regarded him in stony fury. She was
deadly white.