ing to her feet in the poignancy of her distress at such terrible misunderstanding. "He must never know that I have come. Never! . . . But, oh, do realize, Miss Boland, that you only can save him and that you must save him tonight or there won't be anything of Henry Harrington worth saving at all."
There was a pathos in this appeal that rang through Billie Boland's heart, but perversely, there was again hope in it. She saw she had to be adamant but a little longer, and her erring lover would be redeemed by his own suffering—and hers. "Miss Marceau," she began gravely, shaking her head, holding herself high, "for his own sake Mr. Harrington must see"
But Lahleet could contain herself no longer—made no effort to. "He will never see!" she screamed exultantly. "It is you who must see! . . . Oh, you wicked-hearted woman! Henry Harrington will not bend with all the weight that your vicious old father and all his cruel plotters can put upon him." Wrathfully she flung out of the door.
Billie spent some time in composing her ruffled spirits. Was ever woman called upon to bear more? Yet she was rather satisfied with herself. She had been outraged and insulted; yet had been dignified and magnanimous; she had been appealed to but had remained unyielding; she had had her hope quickened and her judgment confirmed—and besides she had learned something—something that always gives one woman satisfaction when she has learned it about another. She braced herself to wait a little longer.
"Of course, such an undisciplined creature would be inclined to exaggerate," she soliloquized, as her maid let down her hair.
