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 you can for fear she'll take him from you again."

Alice opened the letter and a snapshot of Myra's baby boy slipped out. Alice recovered it and quivered. "You'll take him to-day or never," she threatened herself.

David was reckoning, as he drove out from his office, the exceedingly unsatisfactory sum of his achievement which consisted in the sale, to more or less willing customers, of a few hundred motorcars and in the expenditure of most of his profits in temporarily agreeable living with Fidelia at a hotel.

Now she was gone and their friends, of his extravagant days, meant so little to him that he had not seen one of them in months. He felt he had accomplished nothing since he had left college; he felt how very different might have been this day for him if he had been true to Alice. How different might have been this day for her, if he had stayed true! He deserved the bitterness of this reckoning, but she did not. His thought swept back through their years in college together and to the day when, trembling and incredulous that she could care for him, he asked her clumsily for the right to be always her friend and she had cried and kissed him.

David drove very fast in his haste to her.

He found her at the door when he arrived and the manner of his coming, and of her waiting, was like long ago. He flung off his coat and followed her into their little room overlooking the lake.

"You're lovely," he said as they stood and gazed at each other. His word recalled words spoken to her