had signed herself away.  He had spared nothing, in time, pains, or money, to fulfil his part of the compact.  It would be monstrous, therefore, if he were to be cheated of his reward.  That either Ford or Miriam would attempt this he did not believe, even if between them the worst, from his point of view, was at the worst; but that an absurd, elusive principle which called itself chivalry, but really was effeminacy of will, might try to disarm him by an appeal to scruples he contemned, was the possibility he feared.  He feared it because he estimated at its worth the force of restraint a sentimental civilization and a naA-ve people can bring to bear, in silent pressure, upon the individual.  While he knew himself to be strong in his power of resistance, he knew too that the mightiest swimmer can go down at last in a smiling, unrippled sea.

His exasperation was as much with his doubt about himself as with the impalpable forces threatening him, as he strode fiercely from room to room, turning out the flaring lights before going to bed.  After all, his final resolutions were pitifully insufficient, in view of the tragic element—­for he took it tragically—­that had suddenly crept into his life.  While his gleam of happiness was in danger of going out, the sole means he could find of keeping it aglow was in deciding on a prudent ignoring of whatever did not meet the eye, on a discreet assumption that what he had been dreaming for the past few months was true.  As a matter of fact, there was nothing to show him that it wasn’t true; and it was only common sense to let the first move toward clearing his vision come from the other side rather than from his.

And yet it was precisely this passive attitude which he found himself next day least able to maintain.  If he needed anything further to teach him that love was love, it was this restless, prying jealousy, making it impossible to let well enough alone.  After a trying day at the office, during which he irritated his partners and worried his clerks, he presented himself late in the afternoon at Miriam’s apartment at the hour when he generally went to his club, and he knew she would not expect him.  Thinking to surprise Ford with her—­like the suspicious husband in a French play, he owned to himself, grimly—­he experienced something akin to disappointment to find her drinking tea with two old ladies, whom he outstayed.  During the ceremonies of their leave-taking he watched Miriam closely, seeking for some impossible proof that she either loved Ford or did not love him, and getting nothing but a renewed and maddening conviction of her grace and quiet charm.

* * * * *

“What about Evie’s happiness?”

Miriam raised her eyebrows inquiringly at the question before stooping to put out the spirit-lamp.

“Well, what about it?” she asked, without looking up.

“Oh, nothing—­except that we don’t seem to be securing it.”