he said. "The secretary will call the roll."

Pierson's motion was lost--one hundred and thirty-two to one
hundred and seventy-nine. For the first time in his life he was
beaten; and it was an overwhelming, a public defeat that made his
leadership ridiculous. His vanity was cut savagely; it was
impossible for him to control himself to stay and witness the
inevitable rout. He lounged down the wide aisle, his face masked
in a supercilious smile, his glance contemptuously upon the
jubilant barbs. They were thick about the doors, and as he
passed among them he said, addressing no one in particular: "A
revolt of the Helots." A barb raised a threatening fist;
Pierson sneered, and the fist unclenched and dropped before his
fearless eyes.

An hour later Scarborough, his ticket elected and the society
adjourned, reached Mrs. Trent's porch. In its darkness he saw
the glowing end of a cigarette. "That you, Pierson?" he asked
in the tone of one who knows what the answer will be.

"Sit down for a few minutes," came the reply, in a strained
voice.

He could not see even the outline of Pierson's face, but with
those acute sensibilities which made life alternately a keen
pleasure and a pain to him, he felt that his friend was
struggling for self-control. He waited in silence.

At last Pierson began: "I owe you an apology. I've been
thinking all sorts of things about you. I know they're unjust