“You’ve got to, haven’t you?” asked Duane.

“Oh!  Is that it?  A sort of moral formality?”

“It’s conventional; yes.  It’s expected.”

“By whom?”

“All the mess that goes to make up this compost heap we call society....  I think she also would expect it.”

Dysart nodded.

“If you could make her happy it would square a great many things, Dysart.”

The other looked up:  “You?”

“I—­don’t know.  Yes, in many ways; in that way at all events—­if you made her happy.”

Dysart stepped forward:  “Would you be nice to her if I did?  No other soul in the world knows except you.  Other people would be nice to her.  Would you?  And would you have the woman you marry receive her?”

“Yes.”

“That is square of you, Mallett....  I meant to do it, anyway....  Thank you....  Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said Duane in a low voice.

He returned to the house late that night, and found a letter from Geraldine awaiting him; the first in three days.  Seated at the library table he opened the letter and saw at once that the red-pencilled cross at the top was missing.

Minutes passed; the first line blurred under his vacant gaze, for his eyes travelled no farther.  Then the letter fell to the table; he dropped his head in his arms.

It was a curiously calm letter when he found courage to read it: 

“I’ve lost a battle after many victories.  It went against me after a hard fight here alone at Roya-Neh.  I think you had better come up.  The fight was on again the next night—­that is, night before last, but I’ve held fast so far and expect to.  Only I wish you’d come.

    “It is no reproach to you if I say that, had you been here, I might
    have made a better fight.  You couldn’t be here; the shame of defeat
    is all my own.

“Duane, it was not a disastrous defeat in one way.  I held out for four days, and thought I had won out.  I was stupefied by loss of sleep, I think; this is not in excuse, only the facts which I lay bare for your consideration.

“The defeat was in a way a concession—­a half-dazed compromise—­merely a parody on a real victory for the enemy; because it roused in me a horror that left the enemy almost no consolation, no comfort, even no physical relief.  The enemy is I myself, you understand—­that other self we know about.

“She was perfectly furious, Duane; she wrestled with me, fought to make me yield more than I had—­which was almost nothing—­begged me, brutalised me, pleaded, tormented, cajoled.  I was nearly dead when the sun rose; but I had gone through it.

    “I wish you could come.  She is still watching me.  It’s an armed
    truce, but I know she’ll break it if the chance comes.  There is no
    honour in her, Duane, no faith, no reason, no mercy.  I know her.