She seated herself deliberately.

After he had waited in vain for her to speak, he went on:  “If you married me, I know you’d play square.  I could trust you absolutely.  I don’t know—­can’t find out much about you—­but at least I know that.”

“But I don’t love you,” said she.

“You needn’t remind me of it,” rejoined he curtly.

“I don’t think so—­so poorly of you as I used to,” she went on.  “I understand a lot of things better than I did.  But I don’t love you, and I feel that I never could.”

“I’ll risk that,” said Norman.  Through his clinched teeth, “I’ve got to risk it.”

“I’d be marrying you because I don’t feel able to—­to make my own way.”

“That’s the reason most girls have for marrying,” said he.  “Love comes afterward—­if it comes.  And it’s the more likely to come for the girl not having faked the man and herself beforehand.”

She glanced at the clock.  He frowned.  She started up.  “You must go,” she said.

“What is your answer?”

“Oh, I couldn’t decide so quickly.  I must think.”

“You mean you must see your young man again—­see whether there isn’t some way of working it out with him.”

“That, too,” replied she simply.  “But—­it’s nearly four o’clock——­”

“I’ll come back at seven for my answer.”

“No, I’ll write you to-night.”

“I must know at once.  This suspense has got to end.  It unfits me for everything.”

“I’ll—­I’ll decide—­to-night,” she said, with a queer catch in her voice.  “You’ll get the letter in the morning mail.”

“Very well.”  And he gave her his club address.

She opened the door in her impatience to be rid of him.  He went with a hasty “Good-by” which she echoed as she closed the door.

When he left the house he saw standing on the curb before it a tall, good-looking young man—­with a frank amiable face.  He hesitated, glowering at the young man’s profile.  Then he went his way, suffocating with jealous anger, depressed, despondent, fit for nothing but to drink and to brood in fatuous futility.

XVI

Until very recently indeed psychology was not an ology at all but an indefinite something or other “up in the air,” the sport of the winds and fogs of transcendental tommy rot.  Now, however, science has drawn it down, has fitted it in its proper place as a branch of physiology.  And we are beginning to have a clearer understanding of the thoughts and the thought-producing actions of ourselves and our fellow beings.  Soon it will be no longer possible for the historian and the novelist, the dramatist, the poet, the painter or sculptor to present in all seriousness as instances of sane human conduct, the aberrations resulting from various forms of disease ranging from indigestion in its mild, temper-breeding forms to acute homicidal or suicidal mania.  In