“The glory of forgiveness—­the glory of forgiveness——­”

Her heart was beating very hard and fast as her thoughts ran on.

“To forgive—­help him—­teach truth—­nobler ideals——­”

She could not rest; sleep, if it really came, was a ghostly thing that mocked her.  And all the next day she roamed about the house, haunted with the consciousness of where his letter lay locked in her desk.  And that day she would not read it again; but the next day she read it.  And the next.

And if it were her desire to see him once again before all ended irrevocably for ever—­or if it was what her heart was striving to tell her, that he was in need of aid against himself, she could not tell.  But she wrote him: 

“It is not you who have written this injury for my eyes to read, but another man, demoralised by the world’s cruelty—­not knowing what he is saying—­hurt to the soul, not mortally.  When he recovers he will be you.  And this letter is my forgiveness.”

Berkley received it when he was not particularly sober; and lighting the end of it at a candle let it burn until the last ashes scorched his fingers.

“Burgess,” he said, “did you ever notice how hard it is for the frailer things to die?  Those wild doves we used to shoot in Georgia—­by God! it took quail shot to kill them clean.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Exactly.  Then, that being the case, you may give me a particularly vigorous shampoo.  Because, Burgess, I woo my volatile goddess to-night—­the Goddess Chance, Burgess, whose wanton and naughty eyes never miss the fall of a card.  And I desire that all my senses work like lightning, Burgess, because it is a fast company and a faster game, and that’s why I want an unusually muscular shampoo!”

“Yes, sir.  Poker, sir?”

“I—­ah—­believe so,” said Berkley, lying back in his chair and closing his eyes.  “Go ahead and rub hell into me—­if I’ll hold any more.”

The pallor, the shadows under eyes and cheeks, the nervous lines at the corners of the nose, had almost disappeared when Burgess finished.  And when he stood in his evening clothes pulling a rose-bud stem through the button-hole of his lapel, he seemed very fresh and young and graceful in the gas-light.

“Am I very fine, Burgess?  Because I go where youth and beauty chase the shining hours with flying feet.  Oh yes, Burgess, the fair and frail will be present, also the dashing and self-satisfied.  And we’ll try to make it agreeable all around, won’t we? . . .  And don’t smoke all my most expensive cigars, Burgess.  I may want one when I return.  I hate to ask too much of you, but you won’t mind leaving one swallow of brandy in that decanter, will you?  Thanks.  Good night, Burgess.”

“Thank you, sir.  Good night, sir.”

As he walked out into the evening air he swung his cane in glittering circles.

“Nevertheless,” he said under his breath, “she’d better be careful.  If she writes again I might lose my head and go to her.  You can never tell about some men; and the road to hell is a lonely one—­damned lonely.  Better let a man travel it like a gentleman if he can.  It’s more dignified than sliding into it on your back, clutching a handful of lace petticoat.”