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 done, and more," expressed her attitude, and as it was the plain, hard truth, men, as they must, misinterpreted it as the rare flower of womanly modesty.

"It's a waste of time for you to fall in love with me; besides Raoul, although he is a pig, needs me, and you don't; for you're clever and I'm not."

That is what she said to him, and had doubtless re-echoed to the third man. In consequence she had inflamed him, whose nature it was to crave and magnify what seemed beyond his reach. He had not stopped to ask why she had devoted herself to him. It had been sufficient that she had done so. Now, as he looked back, he gave a new importance to the fact that she had regarded him—whatever other feelings she may have entertained for him—as a man who could feed and clothe her for the time being. Then, as he had made his slow recovery she had talked of her frustrated longings for an education, her desire to see the world—and he had taken her troubles au grand tragique. What a situation for a man who had presumed to lead youth in the way it should go, who had so confidently pointed out pitfalls to others! Ah yes, but in their cases he was not blinded by his own febrile passion. The most wise and sober of men were not proof against madness where their own affairs were concerned.

It was over now, and he would never feel again—in that particular way. It was a relief to know it. Germaine now stood merely for the memory of a bad investment—the worst of many doubtful ones. Some might yet show a dividend. The young poet, George Paddon, for example, might end by upholding the torch toward which he, Paul Minas, a sort of philanthropic foolish virgin, had contributed a little oil. Paddon, according to a letter now several months old, seemed to have found his level among a group of budding philosophers and poets—neo-somethingists.