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She was waiting, up-stairs.
Chris was behind with her rent, and she was going to lose her
furniture."
"That you should have to do such a thing!" he protested. "It's
- well, it's infamous."
But she only smiled.
"Well, I've never been particularly shielded. It hasn't hurt me.
I don't even hate her. But I'm puzzled sometimes. Where there's
love it might be understandable. Most of us would hate to have to
stand the test of real love, I daresay. There's a time in every
one's life, I suppose, when love seems to be the only thing that
matters."
That was what the poet in that idiotic book had said: "There is no
other joy."
"Even you, Clay," she reflected, smilingly. "You big, grave men go
all to pieces, sometimes."
"I never have," he retorted.
She returned Chris's letter to him.
"There," she said. "I've had my little whimper, and I feel better.
Now talk to me."
The little clock was striking six when at last he rose to go. The
room was dark, with only the glow of the wood fire on Audrey's face.


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