earlier date she would have cried for joy. But knowing what she did it angered her, though she spoke no word. It was but an overflowing of his love for this stranger—a few drops spilled from the cup he had poured out for another. Part of her desire that he should marry Betty had been her knowledge that he had no love for the girl. Betty would have taken nothing from her. But a mad jealousy had come to her at the thought that this stranger should have been the first to awaken love in him. What had she done for him, this passerby, but throw him a glance from her shameless eyes? What could she ever do for him but take from him: ever crying give, give, give.
She told him of her talk with Betty, so far as it had been agreed upon between them. She had a feeling of comradeship with Betty.
"It might have been a bit awkward for you," she said, "if she had cared for you. I wanted to see how the land lay."
"How did you find it all out?" he asked. "I'm glad you have. I've been wanting to tell you. But I was so afraid you wouldn't understand."
"Why shouldn't I understand?" she asked dryly.
"Because I don't myself," he answered. "It is as if another Anthony had been growing up inside me, unknown to me, until he had become
