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 knew her brother had carried out his promise and that he had been moved up in the business somewhere, and she sometimes wondered if Herbert was finding consolation in that.

Then one night she had a talk with him, and liked him better than she ever had, as a result. She found him alone on the terrace of the club lighting a cigarette, and promptly appropriated both it and him.

"I haven't seen you for ever so long. Why don't you stop in?"

He lighted another cigarette for himself before he answered.

"I couldn't come whining for sympathy, and I was afraid that's what I would do."

"Nonsense! It's better to talk these things out. That's good modern psychology."

But with the door opened in that fashion he seemed to have little to say.

"I haven't anything buried, I think. I've tried to believe that I want her to be happy, but I can't. I suppose what I really want is for the whole thing to go smash, so that she'll come back again. Then I wonder what my own reactions would be if she did come back. You can't tell, you knew." His voice trailed off vaguely, as though he was reviewing some old and painful train of thought. "It isn't only because she's been married, or not entirely. It's because she stood us up, McNair and me, side by side, and—he was the better man. For her anyhow."

"It wasn't as deliberate as that, Herbert."

"Perhaps not, but that doesn't help, does it? He had some attraction for her that I didn't have. Not just looks, probably. She's too intelligent for that. Something fundamental, like—like a chemical affinity. That sounds queer, but you know what I mean."

Bessie nodded.

"Cause of all the trouble in the world," she said succintlysuccinctly [sic]. "Cyrano, for instance!"

"Cyrano had a mind."

"Don't be too sure McNair hasn't. He's nobody's fool, I imagine."