her eyes were cool and calculating. On the floor above she stopped and heard him go out. She looked about. The doors of unoccupied rooms were open, shades drawn, rickety iron beds decked in grimy coverlets. She slipped into the nearest, closed the door and bolted it softly.
Marcia stood there a moment, hand still on the knob. The other went to her face and formed a cup over her mouth. Her head tipped back against the door panel; her eyes closed. The trembling of her body shook the rickety transom and then the tears came. She moved to the bed and buried her face in the pillow. For a long time she was there, gradually quieting. When she rose she spent many minutes at the wash stand repairing the damage her outburst had wrought.
Fan Huston was picking up her things preparatory to departure. Rowe and Marcia stood in the shadow of the hotel. The man was listening very closely to what his companion had to say, with a queer twitching of his lips. She talked rapidly, earnestly.
"I've been a waster," she concluded. "I've wasted the finest things that were in me; I've wasted my appreciation, my best ambition, my intelligence. It's too late now to turn back so long as there's a goal in sight. I haven't the courage. I'm twenty-five, but being twenty-five and thinking as I have since I was in my 'teens means more than just being twenty-five.
"Don't misunderstand me, Phil. I can give you a certain happiness in return for the luxury I want. Without that luxury—no.
"This is your chance. If you fail, perhaps my chance will come later."
