her previous professions of indifference. She knew she was
violating her own heart, but her character was already corrupting
under the breath of wealth, and her head was turned with dreams of
social conquests and of a great and splendid match in the roseate
future. She kept telling herself how lucky it was that the money
had not come too late, and wondering at the same time whether she
would ever again meet a man who had such a compelling charm for
her as Frank Rignold, and whose mellow voice could move her to the
depths. At last, after a decent interval, Frank said he would have
to leave, and she accompanied him to the door, where he begged her
to remember him to her mother and added something congratulatory
about the great good fortune that had befallen her.

"And now good-bye," he said.

"But you will come back, Frank?" she exclaimed anxiously.

"Oh, no!" he said. "I couldn't, Florence, I couldn't."

"I cannot let you go like this," she protested. "Really I can't,
Frank. I won't!"

"I don't see very well how you can help it," he said.

"Surely my wish has still some weight with you," she said.

"Florence," he returned, holding her hand very tight, "you must
not think it pique on my part or anything so petty and unworthy;
but I'd rather stop right here than endure the pain of seeing you
get more and more indifferent to me. It is bound to come, of