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 "Here we are," he told her again, more loudly, as if to rouse her. "Here we are . . . you know I love you."

That stirred her a little. It stopped for a second that racing throb under his fingers; it stopped her breathing; it unclasped her hands so that, for a second, she clung to him. Then she lay back but said nothing. Nothing?

Lida, her eyes said, looking into him. Lida; Lida. What of her? Where was she?

"Lida," said Jay aloud. "Lida's not in this. She's—out. She wants to be out. She's—divorcing me."

The throb, throb which had been hurrying under his fingers, hurried now against his heart; his lips were on hers, burning on hers; her hands, the gentle, holding, pressing hands of love clasped him and drew him again to her lips. "Love . . . love . . . my love . . . love," Ellen whispered.

The world learned, in the next days, that Lida was divorcing him. Lida had reappeared to her circle of society, in Paris, where Mrs. Jay Rountree had taken up a residence, most properly, with an infant daughter, baptized Amelia for Mrs. Lytle. The papers, which printed this news, added the announcement that Mrs. Rountree was proceeding for a divorce; Jay and she had proven incompatible.

Mrs. Lytle, now a grandmother, was with Lida to aid her daughter in the negotiations with the French courts. Later, Jay Rountree would go to Paris; the case required his perfunctory appearance but the legal separation was assured.

Jay sailed for France at the end of the week.