“But you must admit it was beautiful,” objected Theresa pouting.

Ross shut his teeth together to keep back a rude reply.  He was understanding how men can be brutal to women.  To look at her was to have an all but uncontrollable impulse to rise up and in a series of noisy and profane explosions reveal to her the truth that was poisoning him.  After a while, a sound from her direction made him glance at her.  She was sobbing.  He did not then know that, to her, tears were simply the means to getting what she wanted; so his heart softened.  While she was thinking that she was looking particularly well and femininely attractive, he was pitying her as a forlorn creature, who could never inspire love and ought to be treated with consideration, much as one tries to hide by an effusive show of courtesy the repulsion deformity inspires.

“Don’t cry, Theresa,” he said gently, trying to make up his mind to touch her.  But he groaned to himself, “I can’t!  I must wait until I can’t see her.”  And he ordered the porter to bring him whisky and soda.

“Won’t you join me?” he said.

“You know, I never touch anything to drink,” she replied.  “Papa and Dr. Massey both made me promise not to.”

Ross’s hand, reaching out for the bottle of whisky, drew slowly back.  He averted his face that she might not see.  He knew about her mother—­and knew Theresa did not.  It had never entered his head that the weakness of the mother might be transmitted to the daughter.  Now—­Just before they left, Dr. Massey had taken him aside and, in a manner that would have impressed him instantly but for his mood, had said:  “Mr. Whitney, I want you never to forget that Theresa must not be depressed.  You must take the greatest care of her.  We must talk about it again—­when you return.”

And this was what he meant!

He almost leaped to his feet at Theresa’s softly interrupting voice, “Are you ill, dear?”

“A little—­the strain—­I’ll be all right—­” And leaving the whisky untouched, he went into his own compartment.  As he was closing the door, he gave a gasp of dismay.  “She might begin now!” he muttered.  He rang for the porter.  “Bring that bottle,” he said.  Then, as an afterthought of “appearances,” “And the soda and a glass.”

“I can get you another, sir,” said the porter.

“No—­that one,” ordered Ross.

Behind the returning porter came Theresa.  “Can’t I do something for you, dear?  Rub your head, or fix the pillows?”

Ross did not look at her.  “Do, please—­fix the pillows,” he said.  “Then if I can sleep a little, I’ll be all right, and will soon rejoin you.”

“Can’t I fix your drink for you?” she asked, putting her hand on the bottle.

Ross restrained an impulse to snatch it away from her.  “Thanks, no—­dear,” he answered.  “I’ve decided to swear off—­with you.  Is it a go?”

She laughed.  “Silly!” she murmured, bending and kissing him.  “If you wish.”