knew exactly the sort of conversation by which Stanley Ryder had
brought Lucy to this state of mind. He could have shattered the
beautiful image of himself which Ryder had conjured up; but he could
not bear to do it. Perhaps it was an instinct which guided him--he
knew that Lucy was in love with the man, and that no facts that
anyone could bring would make any difference to her. All he could
say was, "You will have to find out for yourself."

And then, with one more look at her pitiful face of misery, he
turned and went away, without even touching her hand.






CHAPTER VIII





It was now well on in May, and most of the people of Montague's
acquaintance had moved out to their country places; and those who
were chained to their desks had yachts or automobiles or private
cars, and made the trip into the country every afternoon. Montague
was invited to spend another week at Eldridge Devon's, where Alice
had been for a week; but he could not spare the time until Saturday
afternoon, when he made the trip up the Hudson in Devon's new
three-hundred-foot steam-yacht, the Triton. Some unkind person had