and there's nothing to do about it--nothing, Valerie, nothing--because even if he asked me to marry him I can't, now--" "Because you--" "Yes." "And if you had not--" "God knows what I would do," sobbed Rita, "I love him so, Valerie--I love him so!" The younger girl looked down at the blond head lying on her knees--looked at the pretty tear-stained face gleaming through the fingers--looked and wondered over the philosophy broken down beside the bowed head and breaking heart.
Terrible her plight; with or without benefit of clergy she dared not give herself.

Love was no happiness to her, no confidence, no sacrifice--only a dreadful mockery--a thing that fettered, paralysed, terrified.
"Does he love you ?" whispered Valerie.
"No--I think not." "If he did he would forgive." "Do you think so ?" "Of course.

Love pardons everything," said the girl in surprise.
"Yes.

But never forgets." * * * * * That was the first confidence that ever had passed between Valerie West and Rita Tevis.

And after it, Rita, apparently forgetting her own philosophical collapse, never ceased to urge upon Valerie the wisdom, the absolute necessity of self-preservation in considering her future relations with Louis Neville.