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T four o'clock on Friday, after a perfect dream of a cruise, the Gray Gull drew into her dock, but Fay Judson looked in vain for her husband. For certain reasons she was painfully anxious to greet him—vague, undefinable reasons; emotions, perhaps, they were instead—but they made her doubly desirous to be folded to her husband's breast and made sure that she was entirely his.

But no husband was in sight. Instead—Blakeley, standing embarrassed and uncertain in the back of the crowd. He made his way to her as soon as the gangplank was down.

"Mr. Judson hopes you have had a pleasant cruise and regrets that a business trip has called him away."

"Out of town? What time will he get into the city this afternoon? Surely he could not have forgotten the Newcomb dinner."

"Not before tomorrow," admitted Blakeley, serious as the man was always serious.

Tomorrow? Fay could have cried with vexation; then something womanly, something more wifely than a sense of slight, got hold of her.

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 "Is—is anything wrong, Blakeley?" she asked in a low tone. "Seriously wrong?" Her blue eyes looked startled and soberly anxious.

Blakeley was scared as well as surprised. Surprised beyond measure to see that Mrs. Judson had no faint suspicion of that whirlpool rapid through which her husband's business affairs were being buffeted as if they had been a barrel with George on the inside. Scared because he knew if she was to be told anything now, it would be by one who did not know what she had been told before—and obviously her husband had told her something to keep suspicion allayed.

"Why, no; nothing serious," assured Blakeley, and Fay with quick relief decided that he was only embarrassed. "Just that Mr. Judson got an opportunity to save something on a parts contract by getting right out on the ground at once," blundered the secretary.

Fay dismissed the man with a nod. "Thank you so much for coming," she said sweetly, but her lips tightened between this speech and the one she addressed to Sir Brian as she turned vivaciously upon him.

"Isn't it too vexing?" she exclaimed. "George had to go away on an old business trip and couldn't be here to welcome us home. He sent his greetings though, and you must come over to dinner tomorrow night and tell George about

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 that experience of yours in the heart of Africa. Of course he'll be for entertaining you with how he has driven a bargain for seven hundred tons of rubber or something like that at an eighth of a cent below the market in Congo or Belgium or Vladivostock or wherever it is that rubber comes from."

She laughed; and Sir Brian laughed—perhaps because what Fay said was funny—or perhaps because he perceived that she would not have made a speech like this about her husband's business before they started on this cruise.

"But—but—whatever shall I do?" wailed Charlotte Newcomb, when over the telephone Fay broke the news that George Judson was detained by a most vexatious and entirely unexpected business entanglement.

"I—I could bring Sir Brian, I think," Fay suggested tentatively.

The wail went out of Mrs. Newcomb's voice in one sudden gasp of relief. "Oh, do!" she emphasized gratefully. "Fay, you are a lifesaver! You wreck me and then you rescue me."

"Thank goodness, that horrid situation was saved!" reflected Fay after she had had one more telephone conversation. "Sir Brian is such a convenience, I don't know how I ever did without him."

She grew pensive, studying herself in the mirror. "A woman of leisure should marry a man

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 of leisure," she decided. "I thought I was going to be a help to George. I thought I wanted to help him, but—" Some upper teeth indented her full, red lip, and she was silent once more, staring thoughtfully at the pattern of a rug.

And this mental defection of the wife came at a particular moment when George was rather in need of assistance, too. He was down in Ohio in a town with an Indian name, and he was dealing with a man with an Indian torturer's heart. The contract between the Elbert Wheel Company and the Judson-Morris Motor Company was the means of torture. Jim Elbert was ruthlessly slicing his pound of flesh with a rusty knife from the quivering business form of Judson-Morris. At length George was satisfied that his appeals fell on absolutely stony ground; that he could win no concessions, no consideration whatever.

"Very well," the young man announced, with a sudden change of manner from earnest appeal to dangerous resignation and a trap-like click of his even, strong teeth. "Very well, Mr. Elbert; you shall have your blood-money. You shall deliver those wheels exactly as per specifications, and you will get your checks. But when the last wheel is shipped and the last check is in, write our name off your books. It will never appear there again. Thanks, too, for that little oration of yours on how a wheel is made. It has given

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 me an idea. There is one profit that our next year's car will save. Hereafter we shall build our own wheels."

Mr. Elbert looked startled. For one thing, he understood force and defiance much better than he understood an appeal for mercy. For another, this swift change in manner unsteadied him—made him fear that he had grasped too tightly.

"Going on?" he husked. "Why, George, I heard you couldn't go on. I understood there wasn't going to be any next year for Judson-Morris."

"Couldn't go on! Are you crazy?" snapped the automobile builder irritably. "Don't you know Judson-Morris is entirely solvent? The little setback in the market this year was due to a mistake in judgment, and I'm the man that made it. I'm the man that's going to unmake it, too." And there came an exultant chuckle to George's throat.

"But, George," protested Jim Elbert with a pained expression, "if you're going on, why we want to go on too. If I had understood that—"

"Yes," interrupted the president of Judson-Morris, "if you had known that we were not in as bad as you thought, you'd not have squeezed us as hard as you did. But now that you've done the pincers act you're through. As I told you, we shall build our own wheels from this on."

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 George Judson walked out of the office and down to his hotel. His teeth were gritted. He was going on—on.

He reached Detroit physically exhausted and mentally weary and naturally turned to his home as to a haven of rest. He had faced some of the bitterest experiences of his business life. That was tough! But his wife had been away upon a delightful pleasure trip. That was fine.

He would rush into her arms, and she would rush into his. She would kiss the sore spots of his spirit; her warm caresses would rest and revive him. They would have a joyous little evening together, and he would go forth in the morning with the nerve and strength of a conqueror once more.

And Fay did receive him tenderly, but seemed hardly to appreciate that he might be weary or that he was scarred with wounds encountered upon the way to honorable victory over circumstances that were adverse. Well—give an account of yourself! was rather her mood, and in his stiff-necked pride he gave it only sketchily, without illuminating detail or comprehensive analysis, and it was in consequence but sketchily appreciated.

"And now, what kind of trip did you have?" he asked with assumed enthusiasm as they sat down to a tête-à-tête dinner.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" and Fay opened

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 her eyes in unaffected ecstasies as at the memory of a perfect adventure. "Sir Brian was such a dear. He enjoyed everything so much—in his undemonstrative way."

And so she went on. But unfortunately, when she came to rhapsodize on Sir Brian at the Newcombs' dinner, she was inevitably reminded of her husband's latest breach of the law of good breeding by running out on the same dinner, thereby introducing Sir Brian to it at all. With burning eloquence she read the indictment to the unhappy culprit, and then with her reproachful blue eyes pinned him like a butterfly on a cork.

George fanned himself violently with his napkin. "Gee whiz, Fay! Can't you understand?" he squirmed. "A whole lot of things came up unexpectedly. This new model we've decided on rather suddenly for next year meant new contracts with our parts makers, and I had to go chasing round to see every one of 'em personally."

"But couldn't you have seen them this week?" she inquired with a superior air.

"This week?" George looked at her in simple amazement. What was the matter with her that she couldn't understand?

Rallying his frayed nerves, he started to be very patient. "No, Fay, dear," he began with a kind of sweet reasonableness. Then the slight

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 frown upon her beautiful brow caused his patience to take wings. He thought, judging from past experiences, that he saw the futility of it all. "No!" he blurted with sudden anger. "No! This week wouldn't do as well. Look here, Fay! Confound it, I'm tired. I'm working hard. I've been traveling. I haven't been getting my sleep. I'm not going to stand for any more of this sort of thing. I won't be bawled out like this. I'll come to your darn fool social stunts when I can—when it's convenient—but when it isn't, I won't; and I'm not going to try to tell you why, either. Just business; that's the reason!—Just business!"

Somewhere in the delivery of this speech George had risen and pushed back his chair. Fay was astounded and terribly hurt. Then her pride was touched, and she was bitterly angry, but she would not respond in kind. She owed too much to her own self-respect. She would be cutting instead.

"I might have known," she said, with quivering nostrils and a curl of her beautiful lips, "that a man of your—your practical nature, would be perfectly common whenever anything displeased him."

"Humph!" snorted George, and stood gazing at his wife as if she had struck him unfairly. Then, fearful of what he might say or she might, if the argument were continued, he tried to man-

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 ifest self-control by pushing his chair in with nice precision. "You will regret this, Fay," he said reproachfully, and he walked out of the room with his head in the air.

Fay watched him, still terribly angry, but stricken with the realization that that was her husband who was walking away from her. It was appalling to think that he could do such a thing.

So they parted—and so they eventually went to bed—for the first time without a good-night kiss.

But George was restless and remorseful and couldn't sleep. Somewhere past midnight he tiptoed, pajama-clad, to his wife's bedside. The instreaming light of a brilliant moon revealed her position and her features—the position of a person stiffly awake; and he saw her eyes wide but unregarding; yet they had to see him—how he stood with mournful contrition in his pose and how humbly he stooped, lower and lower, till his lips touched her hand and kissed it in token of—of what?—submission—no; of affection and desire to be at peace.

Because she did not draw the hand away, but suffered his lips upon it, he argued that she was mollified, and shuffled gratefully back to bed without speaking a word. That she was mollified or relenting or even remorseful upon her own account seemed evident when she took pains

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 to be at breakfast with him in the morning. No allusions were made to the quarrel of the night before, but the pair were ostentatiously considerate and tender toward each other.

George drove off with the notion that the atmosphere had cleared; that he had successfully turned another corner in his marital experience; that he had asserted his independence sufficiently and that his wife would not again heckle him for failure to figure at a social function when business beckoned him violently in another direction.

And business was beckoning violently now. Knot by knot, he actually had the craft gaining speed again. The biggest impulse to this came from Hilary.

Hilary was a tall, pale man with a pinched face and a bulging brow surmounted by a tuft of thin, brown hair. Taciturn and secretive, working alone and almost unnoticed in a corner of the engineering shop, Hilary had been the man to whom Milton Morris was accustomed to take the knottiest of his practical problems. And now, like a flash out of darkness, this taciturn, secretive, competent chap shuffled in to Chilton's desk one day with a design for a new car that instantly commended itself to the vice-president's discerning eye. George Judson saw the points even more quickly than Chilton.

"You've got it, man! You've got our next car right there in your hand!" he declared with a

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 burst of enthusiasm that nearly bowled over the bashful designer. "You're a darn poor publicity man, Hilary, but you've got ideas."

After Hilary got his first car of the new design built and George had studied its lines and ridden in it, his enthusiasm was greater yet.

"This car is a hummer, Hilary," he told its creator, "and by the way, there is no reason at all, is there, why the wheel on this model should not be exactly the same as the wheel on the Nemo?"

"None in particular," mumbled Hilary.

"Good!" said George. "That's where we save ourselves from Jim Elbert. I've got to take thirty-two thousand wheels I didn't want from him, and we'll use them up that way. Meanwhile we'll be getting our own wheel shop under way."

"Wire wheels will be coming back sometime," opined Hilary, an absurdly long speech for him. "Maybe soon."

"You think so?" asked George, surprised.

After his inarticulate fashion Hilary expounded his reasons for the views expressed and did it convincingly enough to give the President of Judson-Morris pause.

"Guess we better plan that wheel factory for both wire and wood, and then we can jump with the cat," he decided, and in doing so felt himself getting conservative.

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 Yet no one who knew exactly what was happening in the Judson-Morris Works could accuse him of that for one minute, because, at a time when his whole works were shut down except the assembling and shipping departments, he was stubbornly going on with the enlargement of the factory. Seven thousand men out. Department after department empty and silent as a tomb, but walls still lengthening, tons and tons of steel going in, yards and yards of concrete being poured every day.

"He's an idiot and a fool!" growled one of Ford's men whom some business had brought into the plant.

"Or he's the greatest wizard of them all!" chuckled John Williams.

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UT for all the new fervor of faith mani fested by the working organization, it was a sore and savage board of directors of the Judson-Morris Motor Works that met to receive the final report on the disastrous Nemo operation—an operation that showed for the year, instead of the usual fat and juicy earnings, a net loss of $1,200,000.

"The funeral will please come to order," announced President Judson with grim facetiousness, and began the disagreeable duty of a formal reporting, but there was not much humility in his manner. He acknowledged full responsibility for the loss, but trumpeted also full faith in his ability to recoup. To fill the depleted treasury and provide funds for the new operation he proposed coolly an issue of bonds to the extent of three million dollars, secured by a second mortgage on the plant.

"In this market—seconds? You can't place 'em," growled Peattie.

"At seven per cent? I can place them inside of a week," insisted George Judson with haughty assurance.

But when he went down-town and set to work

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 with assumed confidence to make good on this proud boast, even his stout courage was dismayed by the refusals he encountered—by the astounding change in attitude since he last had occasion to visit the bankers. Instead of hailing his presence warmly, like an asset, they greeted him doubtfully, like a liability—or what was more ominous yet—with sympathy, which to his proud nature was worse.

"The Street's lost faith in you, George," sympathized old Simon Mumford. "I've got faith in you myself, of course, but your prestige is dented."

Simon Mumford had succeeded Stephen Gilman as president of the St. Clair Trust Company. He was co-executor with Mrs. Gilman of Fay's estate. If the St. Clair Trust wouldn't do anything for George, who would?

George worked for the entire week he had so boastfully allowed himself before his board of directors, and with not one spark of encouragement. At last he stood before S. R. Blodgett. Blodgett had been the man George had tried to see first of all, but he had been put off and put off until, when he was finally admitted to that august presence in the private office of the president of the Huron National, the convictian had already been formed in his breast that salvation depended on Blodgett alone, and Blodgett was unenthusiastic.

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 "Tell you what you do, George," he proposed. "You go right ahead trying to sell these bonds yourself. Take a couple of days more on it, then come and see me."

Young Mr. Judson was vastly disappointed, but he bowed to the will of the man he was forced to supplicate. He rose, hat in hand.

"Come in, say, Thursday at four o'clock, George!" directed Mr. Blodgett, blandly kind and moderately encouraging.

George wrung his hand gratefully—grateful for the hope—and went out. He was so confident that S. R. Blodgett meant to help him, that his shrewd brain would point a way out, that he was tempted to give over his personal efforts to float the loan—only tempted, his nature was not soft. He was no quitter. He kept on with his missionary work—he revisited a dozen of the men he had already talked to; but instead of warmer the atmosphere had grown colder since his last interview.

When, on Thursday afternoon, George entered the private office of the President of the Huron National, he found S. L. Haley and T. O. Tompkins there and took instant hope, for here were three of the five men who had helped him to triumph before, but a second look at those impassive faces might have warned him.

"Looks like nothing doing, George!" an-

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 nounced Mr. Blodgett, as sparing the victim's agony by not prolonging it.

The face of President Judson must have fallen considerably. His heart sank some fathoms certainly; he could feel it lying like a stone somewhere on the ocean floor of his diaphragm.

"There's a lot of people lost confidence in you," accused Silas Haley with a frown. "We helped you get steadied down once, and then you go rampagin' round like this and upset the whole financial equilibrium of the city."

"The whole financial—you compliment me," suggested George, and was able to smile brightly, judging by exterior appearances.

"Seems like with your control we aren't going to be able to absorb those bonds," explained Blodgett with a grave shake of his head.

"With my control?" asked George, giving over the assumed lightness of his manner. "Why, you are the very gentlemen who insisted on my control before you would underwrite the last ones."

"Exactly," said Tompkins dryly, "but now it's different. You've disappointed us."

"About the only way we could handle those bonds would be to have a change of control, wouldn't it?" Silas Haley inquired thoughtfully of Blodgett.

"Change of control?" asked George mystified,

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 throat dry and voice reverberating in it hollowly as in ghostly chambers.

So they were proposing to oust him? A wildness appeared in his eye, and his dark cheeks purpled with resentful wrath.

"Gentlemen, I'm not conceited enough to suppose there aren't a dozen men in the auto industry in Detroit who could step into my desk and carry this thing forward," he confessed with perhaps a greater humility than he felt. "I flatter myself that in spite of the year's reverses I've got the business to that point. But," and he became suddenly bold and assertive, "I don't know where these men are. I do know where I am. I'm in the saddle out there now, and I've got everything at my finger's end."

"That's just why I wouldn't stand for any change in the management out there now," broke out Tompkins flatly.

A knot of perplexity appeared in the young man's brow. Change of control—no change in management. "You are talking in riddles," he said with a weak smile.

"Not at all. You're president of Judson-Morris, and you've got to stay president," affirmed Silas Haley.

"You see, George," Mr. Blodgett suavely began to explain, "if you were to transfer fifteen per cent. of your stock to us, five per cent to each of us, then you would still control the com-

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 pany by us voting our fifteen per cent. through you; but we control you that way, because if we held off on our fifteen per cent. you would lose your majority. That way we could assume responsibility for your not making any wild mistakes again, because we wouldn't let you; and that way we could guarantee the bonds. We've still got confidence in you; other people haven't. But they've still got confidence in us."

The young man's face was a study. "Do I understand that if I transfer fifteen per cent. of my stock to you, your institutions will join in underwriting our bond issue?"

"Today!" declared Blodgett with solemn emphasis.

There was silence while George's brain card-indexed this affirmation. If it were just a matter of "playing the game"—well, he could do that, he could stand punishment when it came his turn. And in this case it was true that, originally, he had been catapulted into power by this great game of business the rules of which he had had no part in making. Yes, if necessary he was now ready to prove himself a good loser as he had formerly proved a good winner. But there was another phase to the matter. He must also represent others than himself in this crisis. Milton Morris and his associates had welcomed George's control and had faith in it—would George now be justified in passing it

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 along to others with no interests but their own at heart? Others who—both originally and now—had made their own rules as they played the game, and made those rules solely to suit their own convenience?

"And what do you offer for the stock?" George finally inquired.

An expression of mute surprise photographed itself on three innocent faces. Then the surprise froze into scorn.

"Nothing!" snapped Silas Haley.

"Nothing!" George exploded. "Fifteen thousand shares are worth, at the market, $310,000, but with one year's successful business they will be double that. You ask me to give you outright practically three-quarters of a million dollars to secure for my company a loan of three millions. It's an outrage! It's highway robbery!" George's voice had risen to denunciatory tones.

T. O. Tompkins flushed at the accusation, but he did not speak. Silas N. Haley looked pained that a charitable offer could be so misconstrued. He turned and glanced appealingly to S. R. Blodgett. Blodgett wore an air of superior patience. He did not flush; he did not even look pained; he looked comprehension and—indulgence.

"No, it isn't, George; no, it isn't," he assured soothingly. "It's like that other transaction of

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 ours. The stockholders needed you, and we forced them to sell their stock to you to give you control. Now you need us!"

"But I paid for theirs!"

"Yes, and we pay for ours by using our reputation for conservatism to save your reckless skin for you, young man; that's what we do," retorted Silas Haley acrimoniously, and turning, gazed at S. R. Blodgett and T. O. Tompkins for looks of confirmation.

They gave them and were silent, watching, waiting!

For the time being, George felt fascinated by his own helplessness. He remembered his sensations in the other transaction when he saw this same mysterious organization of financial power operating with machine-like precision and machine-like indifference to make him rich, and now he saw this identical power operating to strip him—to tie him hand and foot to those who would henceforth be the real power over Judson-Morris and over him.

"I'll never do it, gentlemen!" he declared, but yet with self-control and low-toned emphasis that showed how thoroughly he meant what he said. Then he rose as if to go.

"Better sleep on it, George," Blodgett observed with a resumption of his old, paternal air. "You can see me at ten in the morning, if you decide you want to. I'll hold Haley and

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 Tompkins in line that long," and he nodded toward his two associates who had gone into executive session a few feet away, talking in vehement whispers and with indignant jerks of their heads.

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HERE to turn? What to do? These were the intensive questions that fastened themselves like torturing banderillas in the young manufacturer's mind as, in a cold rage of resentment, he hurried from the presence of the bankers. One moment he declared there was nothing to apprehend in the proposal of Blodgett, Tompkins, and Haley; that it was salvation for him; that their terms were reasonable; that in one year he could earn profits enough to buy back this stock and make his control secure once more. The next he saw in it nothing but a cunningly conceived scheme to take his factory away from him, and he resolved to resist it to the uttermost.

Into this morbid medley there obtruded the old debate—hadn't he better confide the whole miserable mess to Fay? Well, perhaps he would—tonight, in the quiet tête-à-tête hour before bedtime.

Reaching home, he found his wife where he would have most wished to find her—in the nursery, hovering over Junior with clasped, enraptured hands and fond, fascinated eyes. She was regarding some of his newer infantile

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BORGIA. A Period Play.

QUEEN MARIAMNE. A Play in Five Acts. By the Author of "Borgia."

THE ACCUSER; TRISTAN DE LÉONOIS; A MESSIAH. By the Author of "Borgia."

THE TRAGEDY OF PARDON; DIANE. By the Author of "Borgia."

The four volumes uniform in Demy 8vo, wrappered, 3s. 6d. net each.

NUNC DIMITTIS. A Volume of Poems. By. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net.

SELECTED POEMS. By Author:Laurence Housman. Foolscap 8vo, 3s. 6d. net.

INNOCENCIES. A Book of Verse. By Author:Katharine Tynan. Super royal 16mo, 3s. 6d. net.

EARLY ENGLISH LYRICS. Amorous, Divine, Moral, and Trivial. Chosen by Author:Edmund Kerchever Chambers and Author:Frank Sidgwick. Foolscap 8vo, 6s. net.


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 acrobatic stunts with true maternal admiration, but turned with a happy exclamation to her husband and welcomed him by bounding into his arms.

"Oh, George, George!" she confessed with a little cry in her voice. "These long, long days without you are such eternities of loneliness!" She said it affectionately, not complainingly.

For a time after this, though still with entwining arms, they bowed together over the antics of their restless and energetic but even-tempered son. Then, of course, the father had to have him in his arms and go parading round the room. This triumphant processional continued until Fay was reminded of the necessity for interrupting it.

"Break away now, father dear!" she warned. "We have just time to dress."

"What's on?" he demanded, lips pursing obstinately.

"Why, the Hickson dinner to Sir Brian."

When her husband's face did not lighten at this thrilling information, she reminded him: "But this is a farewell dinner to Sir Brian."

George's expression grew suddenly interested and thoughtful. "Oh well! If it's a farewell dinner," he began to concede, when Fay intervened in sprightly voice with:

Farewell'? Why the cattiness in that inflection? Don't you like Sir Brian?"

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 when compared to the task of proving that another’s use of the trademark is likely to cause confusion to consumers. To conclude that a likelihood of confusion exists, the evidence must show “that numerous ordinary prudent purchasers are likely to be misled or confused as to the source of the product in question because of the entrance in the marketplace of defendant’s [use of the] mark.” Gruner, 991 F.2d at 1077; accord Alpha Indus., Inc. v. Alpha Steel Tube & Shapes, Inc., 616 F.2d 440, 443 (9th Cir.1980). At the time of the alleged infringement, the Urantia Foundation did not have a product that was comparable to the defendant’s computer disks. Therefore, the plaintiff’s product, The URANTIAUrantia [sic] Book, and the defendant’s product, a computerized version thereof with a concordance, are considered to be “related goods” not “competitive goods.” To determine whether a likelihood of confusion exists between related goods, the following eight factors are evaluated: AMF Inc. v. Sleekcraft Boats, 599 F.2d 341, 348–49 (9th Cir.1979). The eight factors, however, are not exhaustive, and if the case warrants, other variables may be considered. Id. at 348 n. 11 (citations omitted).

The strength of a mark and the degree of protection it will be afforded are determined by the mark’s distinctiveness. There are four categories of distinctiveness: generic, descriptive, suggestive, and arbitrary or fanciful. As discussed, the plaintiff’s trademarks are not generic. Therefore, they must fall into one of the three remaining categories. The plaintiff’s product is a book; it’sits [sic] trademarks are “URANTIA” and the symbol of three blue concentric circles. Neither trademark, in and of itself, describes or suggests a book, nor is there any evidence that “URANTIA” is a word in any known language. Furthermore, the defendant admits that each of the marks is derived solely from The URANTIAUrantia [sic] Book. (Def.’s Answer at 10–11, ¶¶38, 42.) “A fanciful mark is a name that is made-up to identify the trademark owner’s product like EXXON for oil products and KODAK for photography products.” Gruner, 991 F.2d at 1076; see also Pacific Telesis, 795 F.Supp. at 981–82 (finding “TELESIS does not describe any characteristics, functions, uses or qualities of telecommunications services. As applied to such services, it is arbitrary.”).

Whether the plaintiff’s marks are considered “arbitrary” or “fanciful” is of little importance, because under either label they are deemed to be a strong mark, and “will be afforded the widest ambit of protection from infringing uses.” AMF, 599 F.2d at 349.

“For related goods, the danger presented is that the public will mistakenly assume there is an association between the producers of the related goods, though no such association exists.” Id. at 350. In discussing the proximity of the goods, it is not the physical distance between the goods which is evaluated but how closely the goods approximate each other. The use and function of the two products at issue are similar; using either, a consumer would be able to read the entire Urantia book. Apart from the mode of conveyance, the only significant difference in the two products is the inclusion of a concordance with the defendant’s product. These differences, however, do not dissuade me from finding that the two products


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 "Look here, Fay! What are you so sensitive about Sir Brian for?" demanded her husband, catching her by both arms.

"Don't be absurd!" Fay protested, wriggling free. "I'm not sensitive about him."

"You had to be, to think that emphasis of mine was catty." George's eyes were level, serious, and searching.

Fay herself was for the time being thoughtful and introspective, after which for a brief instant there was a startled look in her blue eyes. Succeeding this, she laughed, confessing: "It does seem strange, doesn't it? And how quickly you took me up on it! That seems peculiar also."

George had to admit that it did. "I guess—I guess that when two people are as close as we've been feeling just now, the mention of a third party somehow—even though we both like 'em a lot—and I'm strong for Sir Brian; just as strong as you are—I guess it makes us both feel a little touchy, what!"

The dinner itself was rendered rather difficult for George Judson because Simon Mumford sat opposite him, and Simon was an unpleasant reminder. He belonged to the banking world. He had been the first financier to tell George his bonds might be prime but his impaired prestige had made them difficult, if not impossible, of negotiation. And as co-executor of the Gilman

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 estate Simon was almost in the family. George found himself studying that shrewd but kindly countenance and wondering what he would say if he knew what Blodgett, Tompkins, and Haley were proposing to do to him.

Yet George rallied tolerably to the social responsibilities of the occasion. Sir Brian made this rather easy, for he was at his best this night.

The Englishman was particularly good over the coffee and cigars, but after the gentlemen rejoined the ladies there was some professional entertainment and Miss Pauson "obliged" at the harp.

George particularly detested harps and, seizing an opportunity, withdrew as far as possible from that golden instrument, sequestering himself in the library where a box of Charlie's clear Havanas appeared ready to his hand.

Now it chanced that one person in the company had noted George's flight and trailed him swiftly to his refuge. That person was Simon Mumford. He chuckled gloatingly at the prospect of a quiet chat in this environment over those things which interested two men of the active business world like themselves.

"George," he announced, "I've been thinking."

"Have you, now?" interjected that burdened young man, forced to be gay lest he reveal the

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 undercurrent of anxiety which surged through him like a torrent.

But Simon was not to be deflected from his train of thought by a jest, and went right on. "Old Stephen Gilman left his estate in pretty good shape, you know—easy for his wife to handle—nearly all of it in preferred stocks and high class bonds. More than three million dollars of it."

"So they have told me," answered George with a nod, lowering his cigar while he wondered what the old man might be getting at.

"Interest rates have risen a good deal since Stephen put away most of that stuff," continued the older man. "The way bonds are going now, that money could be put into industrials just as well as not and earn from three-quarters to one and a half per cent. more than it's earning now. One and a half per cent. on three millions is a lot. It's pretty near criminal not to take it."

"You think," said George, "it would be wise to convert and reinvest; is that the idea?"

Mr. Mumford did not answer George's question save by a nod, but at the same time he asked a question on his own account. "These bonds you're offering pay seven per cent, don't they, George?"

Suddenly George comprehended. "Mr. Mumford," he whispered hoarsely, gripping the co-executor's hand with both of his. "You mean

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 —you mean that you would advise Mrs. Gilman to take my whole bond issue?"

His hands, his voice, his whole body were trembling with excited eagerness. Such an action on the part of the executors would put an instant end to his troubles. It would make him independent. It would set him free of the power of three benevolent-looking but grim-hearted old Shylocks who were even now making sure that they held him helpless. "You would recommend that, Mr. Mumford?"

"Yes—unhesitatingly. They are seconds, but with your assets they're sound as firsts. Besides, I think you are entitled to it."

"You do—Mr. Mumford?"

George's voice was still hoarse with excitement; but even before the banker could nod an affirmative, the young man had begun to see another side to the transaction, and was leaning back and shaking his head gravely. "Allow Mrs. Gilman to give up Stephen's carefully placed investments for bonds in my company?" he questioned solemnly and critically. "Mr. Mumford, I could never do it."

Simon regarded the young man steadily, with a grave, penetrative glance in which affection and reproof were mingled.

"It's a way out, though, George!" he suggested presently.

"A way in, you mean!" frowned George.

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 "That's one responsibility I wouldn't want to have to carry." And then it suddenly occurred to him that there had been something ulterior in Simon's phrase, "a way out." "You know what they are trying to do to me—Blodgett, Tompkins, and Haley?" he asked, leaning forward again and lowering his voice to a whisper.

"They are nailing you to the cross," said the old man with a sigh. "It looks legitimate to them. It is legitimate, if you can't help yourself. And you can't—except this way," and he managed a gesture which seemed somehow to comprehend the Gilman securities. "It looks reasonable to me. It's a perfectly sound investment; it's a better earning power; it's all in the family; it helps you out of a hole; Mrs. Gilman would do it in a minute."

George shook his head slowly and solemnly and rose as if to get away from temptation.

"Think it over," insisted Mr. Mumford, rising also. "Think it over. They'll nail your hide on the barn door tomorrow. They're likely to demand twenty per cent. tomorrow, or twenty-five. Think it over."

The President of Judson-Morris looked troubled, but he still shook his head stubbornly.

"Tell you, George," proposed Simon encouragingly, "I'll come out to the works in the morning, say at ten, and we'll go into it a little further."

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EFORE the president of Judson-Morris had time to think over what Simon Mumford had said to him, he heard Fay calling excitedly from the lower hall. He met her on the staircase, all dancing eagerness.

"What do you think, George?" she clamored with childish enthusiasm. "Sir Brian has invited the Hicksons, the Traceys, and us to go with him on his Big Horn hunt in the Canadian Rockies."

But George, though he had come quickly in response to his wife's call, had left his mind back there with Simon Mumford, and it was slow in overtaking him.

"Eh? Oh! What?" he stammered and, gazing past into the hall below, saw that the Hicksons' dinner party was breaking up.

Part of the guests had gone, others were departing. Near the foot of the stairs Sir Brian and the Traceys stood chatting animatedly.

"Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful, just to get off from the world like that?" Fay seized both her husband's hands where he halted on the step

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 above her. "Just think: We haven't been away on a real trip since our honeymoon."

Slowly George's mind came round to the contemplation of the idea—this absurd and utterly impossible idea that he at this time could absent himself from the city of Detroit for a matter of three weeks or more.

"Could we leave Junior?" he fended, grasping at any straw and noticing, as he sought to raise this feeble obstacle, that Sir Brian lifted an interested eye toward the two of them.

Fay dismissed Junior with a pursing of her lips to express absurdity and an explosive little: "Why, of course!" after which she was immediately off on the main track again with: "I've always wanted to shoot big game. Sir Brian says we women would enjoy the trip immensely even though we never got a shot, while you men would be certain to kill. Then just think, too, what good fellows the Hicksons and the Traceys are when it comes to potlucking—anything like that! It would be such a lark!"

She was all stampeding eagerness and into each sentence got a plea that was almost pathetic in its earnestness. But George had by this time sensed that, besides Sir Brian, the Traceys and the Hicksons were frankly and interestedly listening, and it irritated him to have these people infer that his wife must plead, for any-

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 thing she wanted from her husband, as if he had been a heartless ogre.

"We take the railroad to a station in the Canadian Rockies that Sir Brian knows about," Fay bubbled on; "and from there we start on horseback not far, but up—up—up into the wildest possible country, surrounded on every side by the most awful mountains, till at last we come to some broken tablelands, right on the roof of the world, that are famous pasturing places for the sheep. There we make camp beside a stream fed from melting snow, and—and we go after 'em! Won't it be jolly? Oh, won't it?"

And she let go George's hands to clasp her own in a rapture of pleasurable anticipation.

"But—my dear!" George began in a tone slightly expostulating, while he groped for temporizing phrases which would postpone consideration to a moment when he could soften the inevitable disappointment of his decision.

But with that first word—the first look, indeed—his wife thought she saw refusal coming, and in her manner there was an instant change which revealed that all the while it was fear that lay at the bottom of her breathlessly enthusiastic importunings. With a woman's quick instinct to save her pride, she swung her shoulders quickly to bar random glances from below, so

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 no one but he could hear as she whispered half vehemently, half-imploringly:

"George! George! for my sake—don't—don't refuse me before—don't be too abrupt before—before them."

Such concern was touching, but also it was irritating. In those quick, tremulous, unvocalized words he saw pictured to him a husband presupposed to be too selfishly absorbed in his own concerns to be likely to show any adequate consideration for his wife's feelings, and he did not like the picture—he did not like the presuppositions; he thought both were unjust. At the same time his eyes signaled Fay the desired assurance that she would not be rebuffed.

Clever as an actress, she turned and waved her hand vivaciously to those below. "George is considering," she reported. "He doesn't know whether he can get away or not, but he's going to try awfully hard. Oh, I'm sure we can go!"

Tugging her husband by one hand, she dragged him down the stairs into the group of which the Hicksons were now permanent members, all their other guests having got themselves off.

"I'll do my very darndest, dear folks and Sir Brian," said George after a moment's hesitation. "Perfectly fine of you to ask us! Let you know in twenty-four hours whether we can go or not,

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 so there's time to get somebody else and not spoil the party."

Fay, who, under all her simulations of hope and enthusiasm, had been wildly angry at her husband when she suspected him of intent to refuse her bluntly and openly, was instantly mollified and radiantly happy. "Oh, I am sure George will be able to make it!" she declared proudly. "He always does everything he really sets out to do, you know."

"George, you are the dearest thing!" she exclaimed impulsively, as soon as they were settled in the limousine, and to prove it she hugged him almost violently.

"You little muggins!" responded George Judson in his fond tone, and held her closely to him, her velvet cheek on his. "You want to go on that Big Horn hunt something fierce, don't you?"

"Yes, I do!" she answered with an impulsive movement born of yielding once more to the fascination of that brilliant idea. "Besides, it's a matter of pride. George, I am so proud of you—and I want Sir Brian to realize how devoted such a great big business machine as you are can be to his wife, once he is able to think of himself purely as a husband. I want to show him!"

"By Jingo, I'd like to show him, too, sweetheart!" affirmed George, and his tones were

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 earnest, but not altogether hopeful. "You see it's just a matter of those new bonds. I've got to float them or I can't leave, and the market seems tight."

"George!" she exclaimed impulsively. "Why don't you let me take those bonds? You know I've been wanting to put my money in the works." Instantly she felt her husband's body stiffen.

"Fay," he reminded her in tones of near reproach, "I couldn't do that, you know. Bless your dear, generous heart, I simply couldn't." There seemed to be unalterable decision in his tones.

"But what are you going to do then, George—about—about arranging to get away?"

"This," her husband answered with sudden resolution. "This: I had an offer today for the bonds. If I don't get a better proposition by tomorrow noon, I'll go to those fellows and close up. Then I can go with you on the trip. There!"

"You darling!" she cried, and flung her arms around him afresh. "Oh, George!" she sighed in tenderest love rapture. "I can forgive you anything when you're—like this."

And George in this moment knew how heartily he too could forgive her every exaction and whim and waywardness and innocently stubborn refusal to understand. But he couldn't

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 think of anything in particular that his wife had to forgive, and speculated, rather amusedly, on what it might be.

While Fay was still at breakfast next morning, George reached his desk and began his moral struggle. Temptation loomed large. The din of the factory had never been such sweet music in his ears; the walls had never looked to him such a noble monument to human endeavor; he had never wanted to retain control of Judson-Morris Motor Works as he wanted to retain it now, and he was about to lose that control. It was in this state of mind that bland, kindly Simon Mumford, in keeping his promise made the night before in the Hicksons' library, found George.

"How about it, George?" he asked in his blandest, his most coaxing tone, his fat, pink face shining like a beneficent new moon.

"Nothing doing!" said George bluntly.

But Simon still regarded him hopefully, appealingly, and with sympathy. "I am sure I could persuade Mrs. Gilman," he began to suggest.

"No wife's money in mine, Mr. Mumford, not a dollar." He lifted his hands and shook them, he shook his head, he shrugged a negative even with his shoulders.

"Well, I do be doggoned!" ejaculated Mumford in his thin, crackling voice. "Hum!" and

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 he was silent, thinking. "George," he said after an interval, hitching nearer, "I do hate to see those fellows get the screws on you—those particular three."

"And yet," argued George gloomily, "they're the three that got control for me in the first place. If anybody's going to trim me, they're entitled to."

"But not if they started out to trim you from the first," rebutted Simon Mumford quickly. "They had to see you get something from others before they could take it away from you. Supposing they were the ones who so industriously knocked you in financial circles over the Nemo failure just so they could get this chance to skim you like a pan of milk."

"Suppose they did!" exclaimed George flaring up. "Dod gast 'em, I'd like to beat them more than ever if it's possible they did that."

"It's not only possible, it's probable," declared Simon. "Look here now, George! I'm not so sure but I could find somebody else to underwrite those bonds, although of course none of these financial underwriters are in it for their health. Any of them might demand a taste of sugar—they might even demand as much as Blodgett, Tompkins, and Haley, but—"

"I'd rather pay it to them than to those three buzzards," asserted George, his mind having proved very suggestible on the possibility of

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 Blodgett, Tompkins, and Haley having "ribbed him for a take-off" as he dubbed the process in his mind.

"Then call up Blodgett and ask him to give you till two o'clock to reach a decision," urged Mumford eagerly. "I believe before two o'clock I can interest somebody else."

"You're on," said George tersely; "and I'm certainly much obliged to you, Mr. Mumford."

It never occurred to him to doubt old Simon. It seemed perfectly reasonable to hope that Simon could find some one to take his bonds when George could not, because he was so obviously an interested party, while Simon's approval alone was almost the underwriting of a bond. He merely turned to the 'phone, called up Blodgett, secured the necessary respite, and fidgeted in his chair, pretending to work but accomplishing nothing, until half past one when the voice of Simon was heard upon the wire vibrating with excitement.

"You're saved, George," he gurgled exultantly. "You're saved, at least, from those three . Templeton & Co. will underwrite the bonds—although they demand the same slice as the other fellows, 15,000 shares of common."

George, greatly relieved for a moment, felt his spirits suddenly sag. He had been hoping against this—hoping that Simon would drive

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 a better bargain. Still it saved him from Tompkins, Blodgett, and Haley; and besides, when he later came to meet William H. Templeton face to face, he found him so much easier to deal with that the whole transaction was almost reassuring. To be sure, he had to endorse certificates covering fifteen thousand shares of common stock over to Templeton & Co., but the latter agreed not to present them to the Secretary of Judson-Morris for transfer upon the books for a period of three years, which meant that he could vote this stock as his for that length of time and that for the same period his control was secure. Give him three years of uninterrupted control, and he guaranteed to take care of himself against any kind of catastrophe.

With a sigh of relief he signed his name. He had involved George Judson and impaired his holdings, but he had saved the day for the Judson-Morris Motor Works.

Later he remembered that he had also saved the day for Fay and the Big Horn hunt. As soon as he thought of this, he telephoned Fay.

She was wildly happy. "Oh, you wonderful husband!" she cried in a triumphant rapture. "You wizard! You miracle-worker!"

It had been some months since any one had called George a wizard or a miracle-worker, and he rather liked it. It made him feel that he was really back.

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 "And remember, no Blakeley this time!" his wife warned playfully yet meaningly. "No telegrams. No letters. No messengers from the factory!"

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ROM the hour of George's decision the Judsons joined the Hicksons and the Traceys in spending every spare moment of daylight in the slaughter of imaginary big horns on an improvised range on the shore of Lake St. Clair, and one week later the three couples entrained for the journey westward. On the fourth day after, Sir Brian Hook, as host of the camp and the hunt, was receiving them in a tiny fold of the mountains so deep and narrow that the sun could be seen only at noonday and there seemed a perpetual chill in the air. There were tents; there were horses and horse wranglers; there was Charlie Waterbucket, the Cree guide and hunter, and there was Wah Sing, an expert cook, while above and beyond them was the Big Horn range, only a few thousand feet higher than their camp in a perpendicular direction but astonishingly distant and astonishingly inaccessible for all its proximity.

The second day Sir Brian not only saw a sheep but killed him. There was clamor of the ladies thereafter to be taken under Sir Brian's especial wing. They drew straws for the honor, and

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Rh hand, and who really have helped me out of the mire themselves. And though I try to communicate that joy to others—as I try to communicate anything else that seems good—and though I sometimes succeed, yet I can tell no one exactly how it came to me. For if I breathed one word of that, my present life, so agreeable and profitable, would come to an end, my congregation would depart, and so should I, and instead of being an asset to my parish, I might find myself an expense to the nation. Therefore in the place of the lyrical and rhetorical treatment, so suitable to the subject, so congenial to my profession, I have been forced to use the unworthy medium of a narrative, and to delude you by declaring that this is a short story, suitable for reading in the train.


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 Fay won. Sir Brian, who could ride anywhere, climb anywhere, shoot anywhere, and who appeared to think that just for a woman to put on hiking breeches and a flannel shirt made her as wiry as a monkey and as strong as an orangoutang, set out to justify the ladies' faith in him. He delivered Fay, after much laborious exertion, at an isolated spot on the vertebra of the continent where she actually saw a mountain sheep—that is, she saw something like a huge, dirty, white object that stared for an instant, wall-eyed, and then soared like a bird from one detached pinnacle to another, after which it kicked up its heels and dropped suddenly out of sight.

"Oh, what a jump!" Fay exclaimed.

"But, why didn't you shoot?" complained Sir Brian.

"Shoot? What was there to shoot at?" she argued innocently.

And in truth, what was there to shoot at—the sheep having vanished so quickly? Nothing at all now, but Sir Brian's gray and slightly perturbed eyes, and the woman straightway shot at them with her violet ones. Sir Brian, clean and picturesque in his weather-worn hunting rig, and she in her khaki breeches and leathern jacket, with the little cloth hat rolled bewitchingly to one side—there they stood, very close together, breathing quickly from the exertion of

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 the climb and the excitement of the moment which had just passed.

Could the man be as cool as he looked? As unmoved by her presence? by the fact of their aloneness—with her husband a mile in one direction helping Eleanor to re-do her spiral puttees (if Sir Brian could have known just what George was doing at that moment!) and with Charlie Hickson and Ralph and Rose clambering somewhere over that fall of rock two miles away where the Englishman had pointed them out to her through his glasses? Would she not have been less than woman if, under such circumstances, Fay had not dropped her eyes in sudden embarrassment and asked herself that question, her bosom heaving with something besides the exertion and the altitude? With wild, rugged nature all round them, and with lofty mountains challenging to boldness, would it not be surprising if she did not find out very soon the answer to her curious craving to know? . ..

They did not get a shot at the sheep.

Presently Sir Brian was helping her down the rock as unostentatiously courteous and apparently as composed and reserved as ever, but—she had found out!

Fay was girlishly happy, enjoying the novel experience of a hunt in these magnificent wilds amazingly, but on the night of this very day when she had found out about Sir Brian her

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 husband began to show signs of a flagging enthusiasm. At supper-time while others recounted their adventures, he took no part in the camp-fire merriment. There came a faraway look in his eye, and he fell back into the shadow, as far as possible from the flickering firelight and yet within its circle. Fay knew from his manner that he was wretchedly unhappy and was almost sorry for him—but was still relentless. This hunt was one thing she had exacted of him, and she insisted on her pound of flesh; so instead of sympathizing she eyed him watchfully and with suspicion, impelled to rail at him the minute they were alone. But she suppressed this impulse.

"I won't be an utter tyrant," she said to herself with noble magnanimity. "He can think about his business if he wants to."

But the next night when the scattered hunters came by twos and threes and weary into camp, George Judson was not among them. Fay, coming in again under escort of Sir Brian, found pinned conspicuously upon the flap of the Judson tent a note.

"Forgive me, darling, for running away," the note said, "but I couldn't stick it out any longer.

"At least I've got you planted up here, and Sir Brian and the others will see that you don't miss anything. Make my apologies to him and any

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 excuses that occur to you, I just had to light out, that's all.

"Yours forever, "George."

"Why, how white you look, Fay!" noticed Eleanor, who was standing by her, and Fay immediately contradicted by looking red.

"And who wouldn't?" demanded Fay hoarsely, and stared at Eleanor, white and dumbfounded.

"What is it?" gasped Eleanor.

"That husband of mine!" ejaculated Fay, disgust and anger mingling. "He has bolted—run away—sneaked back to that dirty old factory of his. Abandoned me to—to—" She checked herself. "Abandoned me, Eleanor!" and her eyes grew large and teary with indignation. "Invited me to shift for myself like any common—common—" Feeling the imminence of tears, she dashed through the opening in the tent and flung herself upon one of the cots. Eleanor followed her sympathetically. She had no fortune of her own, and although her husband's circumstances were easy, he still pursued the dollar. Being of a thrifty nature, she aided and abetted him. She had the utmost respect for such husbandly activities and no great patience with wives who affected not to have.

"I wouldn't be too hard on George just now,

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 if I were you," she ventured to suggest. "He's had it pretty fierce this year."

"He has it fierce every year," Fay retorted, searching for a dry spot on her handkerchief. "No sooner does he get one iron out of the fire than he sticks two more in."

"But George has lost a lot of money, you know." Eleanor reminded solemnly.

"Lost money?" Fay curled a tear-swollen lip. "Oh, no!" and she shook her head with a satirical smile. "My husband doesn't lose money. He makes it! Year after year he makes it, and saves out a pittance for himself, and chucks all the rest back into the business, and borrows every cent he can lay his hands on besides."

"Fay Judson!" remonstrated Eleanor, who had listened to this speech with amazement and a sense of shock. "Is it possible you do not know that your husband's company lost money this year? Big money! Away into the millions?"

Fay stiffened proudly and stared. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed in an icy voice with a proud toss of her head. "Oh, no! You are quite mistaken. Quite!"

It was Eleanor's turn to stare. Such blind ignorance combined with such colossal self-satisfaction was truly sublime. "Well!" she retorted in withering tones. "If your husband finds it as hard to tell you anything as I do,

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 I'm not surprised you don't know anything about his business."

With this she walked abruptly from the tent.

Fay hardened and blazed over what she deemed the gratuitous affront in this remark, but nothing at all adequate rose to her tongue to hurl after that indignant squeak of Eleanor's climbing boots. Yet what she flamed with most hotly was resentment toward her husband. And at first this was not for putting her in a position where a woman like Eleanor could talk to her as she had just done. It was for his selfishness in stealing away. Didn't he perceive that she was enjoying Sir Brian and his hunt immensely? Didn't he know that it was her ambition to kill a mountain sheep and that her host had pledged his honor as a sportsman that she should have her chance? And was the man too crass not to understand that she couldn't clamber over these wild and lonely crags with another unless a husband were at least in the same county, thereby lending his official countenance to the inevitable intimacies of such association? Why, he had practically abandoned her to Sir Brian!

But at length the pendulum began to swing the other way, and she found herself staring wide-eyed and thoughtful at the brown, sloping roof of the tent which came so near to her as she lay.

"Lost money? . . ." she was questioning the

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 empty air, white, bewildered and crestfallen, but not quite sympathetic. "Lost money?"

Doubts and wonderings upon this point so distressed her that she had presently to call Eleanor and ask her humbly to explain.

Eleanor did this, now with sympathy for the wife and indignation for a bombastic, vainglorious husband who would leave a wife to learn facts like this from an alien tongue.

The supper call brought this conference to a close, but throughout the meal Fay was silent and contemplative, with the men inclined to joke her a little on her enforced widowhood. The joking came to an end after the meal was over and they were all gathered round the fire, when she spoke out boldly to Sir Brian before them all.

"It was big of George, awfully big of him, to slip out this way," she said with a little break in her voice, "so I couldn't insist on going with him; but the fact is, I think I must. We are so dippy about each other, you know, and George has an awful lot of important things on just now. So I feel I ought to be right with him."

"My word!" ejaculated Sir Brian. "Deuce take it! Must you go though?" and looked at her concernedly as if not quite certain she had given the real reason for her departure.

"I fear I must, Sir Brian!" she persisted however, and the next day went down the canyon.

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 It was indeed with a genuine sense of hurrying to a duty of wifely comradeship and with reproaches for her own blind selfishness that she started—but alas for her intent—three days upon the train were far, far too long for emotions as fluid as hers to be held constant by a reasoned purpose. She had time to brood. So instead of arriving in Detroit to sympathize and comfort him, she reached home late of an afternoon in a mood of simmering wrath, and meaning to arraign George Judson the instant she got an eye upon his recreant form. Favorable to this purpose was the fact that, unsummoned, George himself came home a bit early from his desk to soothe jaded nerves by a play with Junior.

"But why—why on earth did you come homer" he demanded when, in consequence of information imparted by the butler, he came bounding into his wife's room.

"Come home?" she iterated scornfully. "What else was there for me to do?" And she stared contemptuously at a husband who could not see that there was nothing else. "Don't you see why I couldn't stay—after you left?" Haughtily the wife with the sense of outrage so strong upon her swept the length of the room and back.

"I certainly do not," he snapped, and in the anger of his expression was also an appeal for her to let some little light of reason in upon

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 her strange actions if she could possibly manage to do so. "Will you be good enough to enlighten me.

"Will I?" she inquired with a fine irony. "Will I? I certainly will, George Judson, for I have received a good deal of enlightenment myself. For one thing, I learned from Eleanor Hickson all about your wretched failure with the Nemos. I learned the truth about that—not from my husband, but from the lips of a stranger. George Judson," she accused vehemently, and seemed as if on the point of seizing and shaking him, "why didn't you tell me the condition of your business?"

George gave back a little before the force with which she pressed her attack. Besides, this was a shot that went home. "But I—I did it to be kind," he faltered. "I wanted to spare you."

"But will you be kind enough to observe what a fool it made of me?" she inquired with biting sarcasm.

"Fool!" The husband's features framed utter protest. "Oh, now, Fay, dear!" he pleaded. "I can't stand for that."

"But you made me stand for it!" she resented hotly.

"How—I'd like to know?" George inquired stubbornly, but rather bewildered, and perceiv-

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 ing now clearly that he was going to get the worst of whatever was to come.

"Think of me in total, ridiculous ignorance all this spring and summer of how things were going with you," she began, and her wrath was almost melted into tears by sympathy for her own wrongs. "Think of me dragging you to teas, to golf matches, to I don't know what, holding my head high and serene, parading my husband everywhere as a paragon of business genius, bragging about him idiotically! Think of me running about with Sir Brian, taking him off on the yachting trip, and leaving you at home fighting for your life almost—and me finding fault with you because you didn't come to meet us even. Why you—you—don't you see what a cruel position it was to put me in? People must either have thought me a fool who couldn't understand, or a wife so indiscreet she could not be trusted with her husband's business secrets, or too heartless to care simply because she was rich on her own account. Probably they think me all three."

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" George groaned distressfully. "Is that the way you figure it out?"

"You must be blind," his wife accused. "Wasn't I going around boasting about your cleverness in cutting the prices on your Nemo model at the very time when everybody I was

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 talking to knew you had been forced to cut it to save your own neck? Wasn't I?"

"Oh, maybe . . . yes, yes . . . I guess you were, all right," her husband admitted wretchedly.

"Of course, I was, and that's the cruelest thing a man can do to a trusting wife, George Judson—allow her to make herself ridiculous in his behalf." A certain tenderness was permitted to enter into this reproach, and that softness bowled George Judson over completely.

"All right! Have it your own way. I was wrong all the time—all the time," he confessed, throwing up his hands and shaking his head with an expression of deep contrition.

But in such humility there was yet one other rod a truly conscientious wife could lay across his back, and she did not spare it.

"And besides—you've done something else, George," she accused with mournful emphasis. "You've shattered an idol and a tradition—short-lived, but oh, so brilliant while it lasted. I thought you were a superman. I thought anything you touched would succeed, just because it was you that touched it. I thought you were a miracle-worker. You're not. You're just an ordinary, blindly optimistic blunderer whom so far luck has favored. I'm disappointed in you, George; that's the sum and substance of it all; I'm disappointed in you."

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 Her passion was exhausted, but she was resolute still. She didn't mean all she was about to say, but it was well to make him think she did. His mother had said he needed to be broken. Very well, the time had come for that, and she would do it thoroughly while about it. In the tone of one who lays a wreath of immortelles upon the grave of love, she began:

"Things can never be the same between us, George." Her voice was carefully restrained so as to get into just the right regret for some sublime ecstasy that was now forever past. "You've destroyed something—something that will never come again. If you had plotted deliberately against the beautiful perfection of our union, you could not have succeeded more completely than you have. That aura of wonder, that halo of romantic admiration with which I have invested you, is gone, George—gone, broken, dissipated, van—"

There is such a thing as the last straw.

"Sa-a-ay!" George demanded with indignant, self-accusing emphasis, and the manner of the man completely bewildered. "What's the matter with us two people, anyway?" Then while his eye was still upon her there came to him a gleam of inspiration.

"Could it," he blurted explosively, "could it be that cursed Englishman, I wonder?"

"Sir Brian!—"

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 Startled and outraged, Fay Judson screamed the name hoarsely, as in protest at some terrible profanation, while her husband stared dumbly, for before his eyes a lightning transformation took place.

That soft Persian kitten of a woman, with her little, kittenish rages and quick remorses, whom he had known, went away, and there appeared a vision utterly different—a something out of the jungles of biology—not his darling Fay, but a race-woman, primal, elemental, aboriginal—a very tiger-cat of a woman who appeared to feel herself attacked on ground she would fight tooth and nail to hold, as the primordial women fought.

A transformation indeed, this, for gentle Fay—that same sensitive and refined Fay who had been so painfully shocked, not very long ago, by her husband's vehement outburst against social interruptions. ("Perfectly common," she had called his angry tirade then;—his "practical" nature, under the friction of displeasure, had shown itself through the surface veneer and disappointed sweet Fay so terribly!). A transformation indeed, when a kitten bares its claws!

"George Judson," she warned, with that low, hitherto inconceivable, fierce note in her tones, "George Judson, if you ever dare to make an insinuation like that again I'll tear your eyes out."

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 But her husband met the crisis unyieldingly. "It wasn't an insinuation, Fay," he answered steadily; "it was only a hazard, but before God, I believe there's something in it!"

The violet eyes blazed. From soft Fay Judson's throat came that inarticulate snarl of the tigress that is in every woman, and her fingers like curving talons tore toward her husband's face.

But his hands were quicker. Before the fingers could touch him he had seized her wrists. Strong wrists they were, with all their wielding of tennis rackets and swinging of golf sticks and pulling of oars, but George held the hands as if they had been Junior's. He was so much stronger that he could be absolutely gentle as he lowered them to his breast and held them there as in a velvet vise, very close to him, very helpless, while he looked steadily into her eyes.

"Let me go!" she panted desperately. "Let me go!"

He still held her. If he had smiled at the ease with which he did it, if his lip had curled with the slightest scorn at the futility of her struggles, if he had gloated over the magnificence of his physical superiority, or if his eye had flashed one hint of anger, he would have lost her there and then. But he did none of these things. His expression was of shame and unspeakable regret. His air was that of one who

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 served—served by controlling her for herself. His moral mastery was greater even than his physical mastery.

As she felt the futility of her efforts, she relaxed them inevitably, and instantly he relaxed the power of his grip. She relaxed more, and he relaxed more, second by second, until she stood entirely unresisting with her hands in his. And all the while this gradation in physical submission had been taking place, his expression had been growing kinder, more considerate, and more sorrowful.

A nervous tremor, preliminary to a great revulsion, passed over her. He felt it—interpreted it. His hands opened, and she was free—to strike him—to tear him—to fly, but she wanted to do neither. With a welling sob she flung her arms high and closed them around her husband's neck in a convulsive clasp of affection and impetuous desire to remain beached and comforted upon that breast forever.

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HE next day, and the next and next—and on and on till the time turned magically into weeks and months—George Judson felt free to let himself sink into business with greater absorption than ever. He had once more achieved an understanding with his wife; the fact became more and more evident as time sped by. To this was added also a new kind of headclear confidence.

Things went swimmingly, too. A year went by—a year of splendid profit, with losses wiped out, with dividends declared, surplus accumulated, and prestige restored. George sensed himself as once more secured in the seat of executive control. The habit of success was once more resumed. Faith in Hilary as the designer to succeed Milton Morris had been amply justified. His second model, the Shiloh, took the water with a loud splash at the January shows, and Judson-Morris cars swept again definitely into the lead of their class.

Season by season, too, saw George's general judgments on the development of the industry confirmed. The factory went on building

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 went on expanding—production and profits went on increasing. Judson-Morris began to be a real factor in the automobile world and in the financial world as well. Twice in four years it was recapitalized and refinanced.

It was no longer a close corporation. Old holdings were broken up and went on the market. The stock was listed on exchanges.

There came a time when in a single year the earnings of George's remaining thirty-six per cent. of the stock would have sufficed to buy in the open market the fifteen thousand shares of Judson-Morris necessary to make sure and permanent his control, but the young president did not seize this opportunity, because in that moment his loyalty to his company and its future proved greater than any mere self-interest. He refused to halt the year-by-year expansion by declaring a hull-clean dividend of all its earnings. In part this was because George Judson loved his company better than he loved himself. For his company he would seize the moment; for himself he would take a chance. This was typically Judsonian—in a way, it is typically American. Today, George believed, was the seeding time, tomorrow the harvest; the greater the sowing, the larger the harvest; therefore he never paid off today what could be invested to create a larger fund for paying off tomorrow. It seemed a shrewd policy, but it had its hazards.

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 So also had matrimony! He had discovered that afresh and many times in these swift, successful years. Fay's attitude of sweet charitableness toward those exactions which business made of him had been disappointingly and perplexingly short-lived. What was the matter?

It did not seem to be Sir Brian. And yet Sir Brian was still around. But that was only because the globe-trotting young Englishman had a new hobby—air-flight. The feats of the Wright Brothers and others had challenged his sporting instincts. The idea of so combining a few struts of wire, a few spruce laths, and a few yards of canvas that one could thereby take a gasoline engine up in the air and go roaring round among the clouds with it appealed to his passion for adventure. So he flitted between the Wrights at Dayton and Glenn Curtiss at Buffalo, and every little while came back to Detroit to consult about the details of an engine to be perfected especially for this kind of service.

And every time he came he saw a good deal of the Judsons. George being busy he saw more of Mrs. Judson, yet there was not the slightest feeling of jealousy created by this, for the demeanor of Fay at this time was not that of a woman who loved her husband less, but more. Garbed for the links, looking her sweetest, her prettiest, and most winsome, Fay would plead with pouting lips:

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Rh wanted to stop there. All those people, those poor half savage people, tried to keep you, and they're dead. The whole place, it says, is in ruins, and even the stream has changed its course. Father, dear, if it had not been for me, and if Arthur had not helped me, you must have been killed."

Mr. Lucas waved his hand irritably. "It is not a bit of good speaking to the governess, I shall write to the landlord and say, 'The reason I am giving up the house is this: the dog barks, the children next door are intolerable, and I cannot stand the noise of running water.

Ethel did not check his babbling. She was aghast at the narrowness of the escape, and for a long time kept silence. At last she said: "Such a marvellous deliverance does make one believe in Providence."

Mr. Lucas, who was still composing his letter to the landlord, did not reply.


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 "George! Do come out and have a round of golf with us this afternoon."

And George would be laughingly contemptuous. "Knocking a pill round a pasture? Nope! Not today. Sorry, sweetheart, I've got something real to do."

Absorbed, content, oblivious—playing the greatest game he could conceive of, stroke by stroke, across his huge mahogany desk, he looked down in these days upon mere sport as the diversion of a child mind.

And Fay would be furiously angry and—then—tramping the links with another—Sir Brian, perhaps—would inevitably try to be charitable. "Dear old money-grabber!" she would sigh. But it was hardly to be wondered at if she grew jealous of the factory. "Sell it, George!" she appealed one day wistfully. "I am losing you. I can feel you slipping away from me every day. Sell it and get out so I can have you all to myself. I have so much more than enough for both of us, you know."

George was horrified. "But I can't get out, Fay," he tried to reason with her. "It isn't my money alone, you see. It's all the other fellows'. The stock has been sold and resold. The people who bought it didn't invest in shares in an automobile company. They took stock in me—in my reputation. You see, the whole big enterprise is pyramided on me. I've got to stay and

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 make good for everybody that reposes a dollar's worth of confidence in me. I have—in honor, you know."

As he said this, his eyes glowed with a fine light. Fay saw that he was right, and was willing to try to be patient and resigned.

"And how long will it take to work the thing out?" she asked hopefully.

"Only five to seven years," responded George in accents of cheer.

"Oh, my God!" Fay groaned. Her face had become gray and frightened. "Seven years?" she whispered the words to herself as if weighing them in her mind, pronouncing the numeral as if it had been seventy instead of seven. "I'll—George!" and she clutched at him helplessly. "I'll be an old woman then. I'll be past thirty."

It was only her profound seriousness that saved her husband from jeering, from ejaculating "Rats!" or some other such disrespectful and unfeeling expletive. Instead he expostulated with sweet reasonableness: "Why, Fay! You'll just be coming into your prime. What a wonderful woman you'll be at thirty! No woman gets to her real beauty before that."

But the wife sat pulling her hands restlessly, with the gray look again in her face, and George had recourse to an old expedient for rallying her spirits. He painted the picture of his ultimate ideal for the plant—a huge hive for a happy

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 industrial brotherhood, in which the man who's wept the floor, the man who worked at the lathe, the stenographer at the typewriter—every last employee, in fact—was also to be an owner. The factory was to be a noble social enterprise in which everybody worked for everybody else and each made profit for himself. And Fay was carried away by this fine enthusiasm as she had frequently been before.

"Just to think of doing that for so many, many people!" she cried, and clung to his hand. "I guess I can stick it out just for that, George," she confided to him earnestly.

But she could never hold a vision and a purpose like this for long. After a few days.

"I'm too weak, George," she would confess despairingly; "too selfish. I'm only a sybarite after all."

"No, you're not, honey; no, you're not," he would comfort. "Sybarite? Why, I should say not. You do your share of the world's work by just helping me do mine."

But when it became apparent to him that by no stretch of the imagination was she helping him to do his work, he decided the time had come for a little straight talk.

"But I get so bored with just—just nothing to do but be a wife," she broke out at him one day, and he whipped back with,

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 being a wife? If you'd try to be the kind of wife that Eleanor Hickson is, for example, you'd have something to occupy you, all right. Why don't you do the kind of things with me that I want to do—for example—the things that rest me—the things that soothe my nerves—the things that make me fit to go back in the morning and put up a fight? God knows I need it. My job gets tougher every year. Now just look at Eleanor. She waits for old Charlie to come home like a mother for an only son. The first thing she does is to feel him out. If he craves golf, she's for it, if he'd rather smoke on the back porch and go to the theater in the evening she's for that; or if he just feels like shucking off into loose clothes and slippers and sitting around and playing five hundred with a pipe in his mouth that you can smell a mile, why she's for that and she plays the game with him, till he goes to sleep in his chair. If there's a dinner on when he doesn't feel up to a dinner, think she drags him out? Why, say, she'd make a thousand excuses to get him off. She'd lie like a devil to save him—save him, you understand!"

"You idiot!" reproached Mrs. Fay Judson, with a look of hot disdain. "To think of comparing me with a spiritless little echo like Eleanor Hickson."

But George was just getting warmed up to a whole series of helpful suggestions.

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 "Or," and he described a graceful circle with his cigarette hand; "why can't you be a wife like Norma Howes then. Look at Norma with her stock farms and her horse shows and her operatic star venture and her penchant for hanging round race tracks—and her far flung battle line of social engagements. She sails the seas like a privateer. She unpacks her trunks at Palm Beach or Newport or Coronado and she has a wonderful time. I doubt if she has a lonely minute.

"And do you think she spends much time fretting because her husband isn't along? Not much, she don't. She knows he's got to be at his desk chiseling out money for her to spend—good old Tom Howes, with the best set of selling brains under his bald bean that there is in the automobile industry save and excepting only one."

"Which modesty forbids you to mention," cut in his wife with biting scorn.

"Exactly," conceded George with the utmost complacency and blundered on with: "Think Tom crabs her when she comes home, broke and tired of the world, and ready to settle down to a long spell of connubial bliss? Not on your life. Tom's face lights up like factory windows at sunset and he gathers her into his arms like Romeo reaching for Juliet. They're happy, darn it! That's partnership—that's mutual ac-

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 commodation—that's live and let live, that's—"

George was embarrassed and interrupted by perceiving that his wife was containing herself with difficulty, a prey to surprising, unreasonable anger, while he was innocently and stupidly unaware of having given her cause for anger. He had merely—merely tried to make himself plain—was all. Patient, long-suffering man that he was, he decided to try again. "You don't want to be a vampire, do you, Fay?" he inquired tenderly reproachful. "Just sucking all the business blood out of me—and trying to make me into a sort of—a sort of social lapdog?"

"Lapdog? . . ." and her tones quivered with scorn and wrath as she rose silently and ominously to a very climax of rage in which she exploded upon him with "You—you hedgehog!"

She accomplished a terrific sound of smashing something by a sudden crumpling of the evening paper which had lain in her lap, and flounced out of the room.

"Hedgehog! Whew!" chuckled George. "That was a hot one."

But the very next day Fay had lapsed into her most bewitching mood, that of languorous, challenging love.

"Oh, do come away to Daphnean groves, George, and play with me," she pleaded, with her most captivating smile, glancing up so coquettishly from under the long lashes, so ravish-

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 ingly beautiful, so warm and palpitant and enticing, and withal so naïve that he could only pretend to resist her.

"Cleopatra pleading with Antony madly to throw a world away," he intoned jestingly. "Away, temptress! Avaunt!"

But he belied his words by drawing her into his arms with her laughing exultantly because her power to charm was still supreme when she chose to exert it. Yet when she could not charm him into a promise to give her more time from his business, she flew into a tantrum; then lapsed into quivering remorse.

"Oh, George! I do believe I'm the most unjust, unreasonable, ungrateful woman in the world," she confessed, weeping in despair over herself.

This was followed by a pitiful period in which Fay Judson tried to be the kind of wife that Eleanor Hickson was; but she couldn't keep it up. The cool-headed, warm-hearted, steady-nerved standing by required of a wife who would be a help-meet to George Judson, seasoned as he had been seasoned, doing what he was doing, had not been bred into Fay Judson—not yet.

"I'm too weak, George!" she confessed again. "I'm just a sybarite after all."

And there came a time when George no longer disputed this. He thought she was a sybarite,

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 and he was willing to let her be a sybarite, if she would be just that and nothing else; but she wasn't. An eternal restlessness possessed her. She was always wanting to go somewhere—to do something that had never been done before. She had a fertile imagination and proved what an astonishing number of absurd enterprises one young woman can think of to propose when she has upward of three millions at her back and abundance of time upon her hands. But one day these proposals appeared to reach the climax of absurdity.

"Wha-a-at!" George ejaculated with coarse incredulity, his heavy brows lifted, his black comb-back seeming to rise along a ridge in its center, so great was his astonishment. "Head an expedition to search for the Garden of Eden? Me!"

Fay flushed but stood her ground. "Why, yes, George!" she enthused, sweetly radiant with innocent enthusiasm. "The Mesopotamian Valley is the most romantic place—cradle of history, you know—all full of ruins and cute little inscriptions on sun-baked bricks—important political records mixed in with letters schoolboys wrote to their fathers asking for money—thousands of years ago—letters of lovers to sweethearts, too."

"Oh, I see," scoffed George. "When a girl

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 wanted to write a letter to her sweetheart, she heaved a brick at him."

"George! You ignoramus!" she rebuked. "Don't get funny, now. Those ruins are wasting away with every rain, being pillaged by every ignorant, roaming brigand. Precious knowledge may be lost to the world at any moment. Think how fine it would be for George Judson, the automobile manufacturer, to organize and lead a party up the valley of those two ancient rivers on the banks of which civilization was born—take a professor or two along, of course, to direct the excavations and read inscriptions. It would be such a lark, and besides it would be in the interest of science!"

"Science! Gosh, oh, gosh!" exploded George, who had restrained his impatience to the limit while he listened. "Say! Are you getting nutty? Are your I want to know." He seized her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "You'd better see a doctor," he decided. "You had—really."

Fay was naturally indignant at such irreverent scoffing at the dearest project she had conceived for a long, long time. "That's the way you always receive every suggestion I make—you—you stupid, old business drudge!" she reproached. "You haven't got a bit of interest in science!" Her tone of accusation was weepy.

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 "I'll try going alone sometime—and then see how you like it!"

This was flung tauntingly from the door as an exasperated and bewildered husband stood staring after the departure of an exasperated and indignant wife.

As for Fay, she said not another word about an excursion to the cradle of civilization, but she had other words to say about other projects as wild, as mad, and to as distant points of the compass for other excuses just as invalid. A mania for far journeyings had taken hold of her.

"Jee-rusalem, where does she hear of 'em all—these countries, I mean?" George would rant. "Gosh! I'm going to burn all the geographies and encyclopedias before she digs up any new places to go. What is it? What is it?"

He tried to make light of that whole phase of Fay's life with him, and did. He laughed away her proposals; he kissed away her tears—he permitted no base suspicions to enter his mind. He was glad of Sir Brian around occasionally to take her places and entertain her and keep her mind from brooding on his inability to be always her escort.

It was not until he realized that Fay's love moods had become so rare that they had almost disappeared; that there were no more of those attacks of quivering remorse; that there was only

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 listlessness and despondency verging on despair that he waked up to the fact that there was something absolutely abnormal in the state of relations with his wife.

"What the devil is the matter with me," he burst out savagely at himself, "that I can't make one little woman happy?"

That was his position in general upon this matter until there happened into Detroit an eminent practitioner of psychoanalysis, summoned from New York as an expert witness in a will case of Ralph Tracey's in which subconscious mental histories were involved. For three days it was a cause célèbre, and for that period of time the Detroit papers were full of talk about this strange science of diagnosis by dreams.

On the evening before the specialist's departure, the Traceys gave him a little dinner at their home. Among the dozen guests were George and Fay and Sir Brian. The noted guest, large of face and body, proved also a large-brained person with engaging manners and a most agreeable willingness to discourse about his favorite theme.

"Beware how you tell me your dreams!" he challenged, and at once every one was offering what he deemed a discreetly censored sample of his dream life; but the doctor's ready interpretations and keen deductions were disconcerting as well as intriguing. Some he interpreted fully,

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 some guardedly; some he did not interpret, causing the narrators a certain feeling of discomfort as wondering what it might be they had unwittingly revealed that was so terrible it might not be stirred into the potpourri.

At first every one was vastly entertained, and then some were thoughtful and reserved and introspective or restless, as if they heard skeletons rattling or had unintentionally submitted themselves to the disclosures of an X-ray eye and would be ill at ease until they would wriggle out of range of this blazing searchlight of the under soul.

But one cannot run away from a dinner, and one cannot sit forever dumb. Presently, when those with misgivings in their breast perceived that to fall suddenly quiet was to confess some vague sense of guilt, everybody began laughing and chatting and bantering each other and the doctor. But a skilled psychoanalyst is a dangerous man with whom to bandy wits. Where the subject trenches on his special field, he is sure to suspect if not actually discern the truth which so often lies behind the jest.

As the evening wore on, the doctor gathered an astonishing amount of information about these perfectly respectable people; things their neighbors had never been permitted to know; in a few instances, things they did not even know about themselves. One guest in particular ex-

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 cited his interest because of a mental state peculiarly ripe for analysis and because such swift deductions as he could make aroused his keenest sympathy. This person also attracted him because of her unusual beauty. He said to himself that he would like to help that disturbed, wistful little woman if he could, and to that end he favored her with special attention and a discussion cunningly calculated to draw out more of what lay behind those violet eyes.

But there were two guests of the Traceys who told the doctor none of their dreams. One was Sir Brian Hook. The other was George Judson. He was too frankly interested in the doctor's marvelous display of his powers and the possibilities which they raised in his mind to intrude anything concerning himself. He knew all about himself anyway. Accustomed always in his business to the employment of experts, whether in science of technology, to solve problems that his organization could not solve of itself, he was quick to grasp the fact that here was an expert in a new department of human knowledge whose good intent he could trust implicitly and whose skill might be of profound and grateful assistance to him.

In the confusion, exclusions, and contacts incident to the departure of a number of guests, George made opportunity to get the doctor's ear for a moment.

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 "You are leaving at eight in the morning, I believe," he postulated. "Don't do it, please, Doctor! You have impressed me tremendously, and I feel that I must consult you upon a matter of grave importance. Money is absolutely of no consideration if you can help me."

And the doctor gave surprising proof of his powers when he slanted a sympathetic eye directly into the earnest, anxious face before him and answered straight, "Yes, Mr. Judson, I agree with you that you must consult me."

"You—you know something?" stammered George, and gripped him by the hand.

The doctor returned the grip appreciatingly, but "Tomorrow at eleven," was all he whispered.

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ECLUDED in a room of the Pontchartrain Hotel, high up from the street, sparing himself nothing, yet trying to be fair to himself as to Fay, George Judson told the scientist the story of his life and of hers and of their life together.

"Just the old familiar story, Mr. Judson," the doctor diagnosed wearily, as if his shoulders were already bowed by the great weight of domestic woe the practice of his peculiar profession devolved. "One I have heard a hundred times before—a husband absorbed in business and a wife with abundant energies and nothing to do."

"But, Doctor," protested George, "she has a lot to do—if she would do it."

"Nothing adequate to do!" emphasized the doctor; "and, and—" But the neurologist this time interrupted himself. He had been going on to complete the world-old triangle by adding, "And the other man."

But the obvious intensity of Judson's nature warned him. He saw that the reaction after this long passivity of a generous and unsuspecting heart might be a sudden impulse to violence.

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