broken, and the debris had been carried away by the freshets of spring
and the floods of autumn.

They were silent for a time. Presently she looked up at him.

"You're much better to-day, "she said; "better than you've been since--
since that night!"

"Oh, I'm all right," he answered; "right as can be." He suddenly turned
on her, put his hand upon her arm, and said:

"Come, now, tell me what there was between you and Vanne Castine--once
upon a time.

"He was in love with me five years ago," she said.

"And five years ago you were in love with him, eh?" "How dare you say
that to me!" she answered. "I never was. I always hated him."

She told her lie with unscrupulous directness. He did not believe her;
but what did that matter! It was no reason why he should put her at a
disadvantage, and, strangely enough, he did not feel any contempt for her
because she told the lie, nor because she had once cared for Castine.
Probably in those days she had never known anybody who was very much
superior to Castine. She was in love with himself now; that was enough,
or nearly enough, and there was no particular reason why he should demand
more from her than she demanded from him. She was lying to him now
because--well, because she loved him. Like the majority of men, when
women who love them have lied to them so, they have seen in it a
compliment as strong as the act was weak. It was more to him now that