"No, none of consequence. I am afraid he would. If--if he went into the office with me now, I could keep an eye on him. That is," she amended rather hopelessly, "I could try to. Charlie would probably have no trouble in deceiving me if he tried to. I thought that Henrietta might be willing to help about him. She might be able to do more with him than I could."

"Of course she would be willing."

"She seems to have influence with Charlie and I should think she would be willing to use it for his good. I haven't any influence," she continued, "except through his fear of being found out. I don't know how it happened--that doesn't matter especially--but he doesn't trust me. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is." She sighed and looked away.

Fox did not like to have her look away. He much preferred to have those gray eyes look trustingly into his.

"You may be sure that it's through no fault of yours, Sally."

"Perhaps," Sally returned, looking back at him. "Perhaps, but I'm not so sure. Very likely it is my fault. At any rate, it can't be helped.

That's the way it's gone." She stopped and seemed to be considering; wondering, perhaps, how she should have done. She could not have done differently, being herself. There was always, at the bottom of her heart, an utter contempt for--well, she would not complete that thought. And she sighed again and resumed. Fox had said nothing.

"If we kept him in college, there would be relapses,--inevitably, I think,--and I should only have to do this over again. Not that I should mind," she interrupted herself hastily, "if it would do any good. But every relapse would make it harder. There seems to be no escape. I think he'll have to come out. That, I understand, is the sense of the meeting?" She looked at Fox again, smiling whimsically.

"That is my advice," said he, "if I am privileged to give advice on the subject. I'm sorry to be seeming to take away his opportunities.

His regret will grow as he grows older."

Sally shook her head. "He doesn't seem to have any regret."

"He will have."

"He may. I should think he would. But it's his own fault and that's all there is to say about Charlie. I've done the best I could and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I'll have him come into the office to-morrow and I think he'll be glad to. It's a change, you know."

Sally looked at Fox and smiled again; but if there was anything humorous in her smile there was much more that was scornful.

"And now, Fox," Sally continued, very low--he could hardly hear the words--and looking away again, "I have something else to tell you. It is rather terrible, I think." Her voice was not steady and she stopped, trying to control it. She did not want to cry; she did not mean to. "I saw--" She choked, but went on bravely. "I saw my father this morning."

"What!" He cried in a voice as low as her own. The effect of her words was as great as she could have expected, if she thought of the effect at all. He put out his hand instinctively; but Sally withdrew hers.

"Where, Sally?"

"He came to the hotel to see me." She spoke in a monotonous voice. She found that her only hope lay in using that voice. She might begin to cry at any moment. If she should--she was almost worn out and she was afraid. In that same monotonous voice she gave every detail of the interview. She did not omit anything. It was all burned into her memory. Fox did not speak. When she came to an end of her account she found that even her monotonous voice could not save her. She was perilously near to tears and her chin would quiver in spite of all that she could do.

"Sally! Sally!" said Fox tenderly. He saw her condition. "Don't tell me any more now if it distresses you."

"I may as well," she replied as well as she could. She smiled up at him, but her chin quivered more and more. "I may as well--now as well as another time. For--for I've got to tell you, Fox." She looked at him imploringly. "I've got to tell somebody, and the somebody is always you." She smiled again tearfully, and looked away again. Fox could not stand many such smiles. He would--would do something, he did not know just what; but he sat gazing at her with infinite tenderness and pity, saying nothing.

"My father is employed in--in the house that we went to," she resumed at last; "the house where Charlie has been playing. He deals the cards--or something. He must have known!" Two tears fell into her lap.

"To think that my father has fallen to that!--has fallen so low! And when Charlie said that to him," she cried desperately, "it almost b--broke my heart."

Her voice shook and suddenly she bowed her head upon her arms, which were resting on the table, and broke into a pa.s.sion of tears; wild weeping, such as Fox had never known--had never supposed could come from her. She had always seemed so beautifully poised, so steady and so st.u.r.dy; like a rock, on which others built their foundations. But the rod had smitten her and the springs were unbound. He had a wild desire to take her in his arms.

But he didn't--then. He only murmured something meant to be comforting. G.o.d knew he wanted to comfort her; wanted to as he had never wanted anything in his life before. He would, if he only knew how. But the wild weeping had given way to a subdued sobbing.

"And--it--it alm--most b--broke my heart," she sobbed, "to re--refuse what he asked. B--but I had to do it. I h--had to do it, Fox. I c--couldn't do anything else." She caught her breath. She could not go on for a minute.

Only an inarticulate murmur came from Fox.

"Father was such a pathetic figure!" Sally went on a soon as she could speak. "Of course I know that he is not always so--that he is seldom so. There were mother and Charlie to think of. But it seemed so terrible! And he was so patient under Charlie's--treatment--his own father! I can't get him out of my--"

Her wild weeping, restrained for a moment, broke out again.

"Sally!" Fox murmured, leaning forward and laying a hand upon her knee. "Sally, dear!"

There was a great distress and a great longing in his look, but Sally had her head down and she did not see it. But it was in his voice and she may have heard it. He rose impulsively from his chair and went to her quickly--it was only a step--and he sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm around her.

"Sally, dear!" he implored. "Don't cry so! Please don't."

She did not repulse him, as he had feared she would, gently, of course, but firmly; but she did not yield either. It was as if, for the moment, he was nothing to her--nothing more than a brother; not _her_ brother, thank heaven! She only sobbed, there, for some minutes--in his arms. That was enough.

She became more quiet in time. She still had her head down upon one arm, but she was feeling up her sleeve and under her belt, searching for something.

"Forgive me, F--Fox," she said, "I didn't mean to do it, but I'm t--tired out and--and I can't find my handkerchief." She laughed a little hysterically. "Have you got one to l--lend me, Fox? I c--can't lift my head be--because I'm crying and I've cried all over your table and into your chair--"

"Drat the table! What do you suppose I care about it, Sally?"

"You--you ought to. I--it's a very pretty table."

"I value it only because it holds your tears." Fox was unfolding a handkerchief. It was a very large handkerchief. He put it into her seeking hand. "I remember another occasion when you had to borrow a handkerchief," he said. "Do you remember it, Sally?"

She nodded and began to mop her eyes. "Mercy! I--I didn't want a sheet, Fox," she said.

Fox smiled. "I didn't know. You might." His voice was not steady as he went on. "Sally," he whispered, "I--I want you. I want you!"

She gave another hysterical laugh. "Well," she cried, "anybody w--would th--think that y--you had me."

"Have I, Sally dear?" he asked, still in that low whisper. "Have I?"

He bent over her neck. That was the only part of her that he could reach--that neck with its little tendrils of waving hair.

"Oh, don't!" she cried hastily. "Don't, Fox. You haven't got me--yet,"

she added in a whisper which was barely audible. But Fox heard it.

"It--it isn't because--because you are sorry for me?" she asked in a very small voice.

"No," Fox was smiling again; but, as Sally had her eyes hidden, of course she did not see it. "I am sorry for you as I can be, but that isn't the reason. Guess again."

"Are you _sure_, Fox? _Very_ sure?" she asked. "Say that you are, Fox," she whispered. "Can't you please say that you are?"

"I am sure."

"And it isn't be--because m--my father," the small voice asked again, "because my father is a--"

"No. That isn't the reason either. I'm quite sure, Sally."

Sally's head was still down on the table and she was wiping away her tears.

"But, Fox," she protested, "you ought not to, you know."

"I ought," he replied indignantly. "I ought to have done it long ago.

Why not?"