Her love had become the governing impulse of her life, and its dictates were imperative until they trenched upon her sensitive, womanly pride.

Then they were met as the rock meets the tide.

She did not care what the world might think: it should never have occasion to think at all.

Her secret was between herself and God.

Graydon himself should never know it unless his name became hers.
How vividly her old haunts recalled him! There was the lounge on which he used to toss the "little wraith" after having carried her around in the semblance of a waltz.