Not since Palla had telephoned on that unfortunate night had she or Helen ever mentioned Jim. The mother, expecting his obsession to wear itself out, had been only too glad to approve the rupture.

But recently, at moments, her courage had weakened when, evening after evening, she had watched her son where he sat so silent, listless, his eyes dull and remote and the book forgotten on his knees.

A steady resentment for all this change in her son possessed Helen, varied by flashes of impulse to seize Palla and shake her into comprehension of her responsibility--of her astounding stupidity, perhaps.

Not that she wanted her for a daughter-in-law. She wanted Elorn. But now she was beginning to understand that it never would be Elorn Sharrow. And--save when the change in Jim worried her too deeply--she remained obstinately determined that he should not bring this girl into the Shotwell family.

And the amazing paradox was revealed in the fact that Palla fascinated her; that she believed her to be as fine as she was perverse; as honest as she was beautiful; as spiritually chaste as she knew her to be mentally and bodily untainted by anything ign.o.ble.

This, and because Palla was the woman to whom her son's unhappiness was wholly due, combined to exercise an uncanny fascination on Helen, so that she experienced a constant and haunting desire to be near the girl, where she could see her and hear her voice.

At moments, even, she experienced a vague desire to intervene--do something to mitigate Jim's misery--yet realising all the while she did not desire Palla to relent.

As for Palla, she was becoming too deeply worried over the darkening aspects of life to care what Helen thought, even if she had divined the occult trend of her mind toward herself.

One thing after another seemed to crowd more threateningly upon her;--Jim's absence, Marya's att.i.tude, and the certainty, now, that she saw Jim;--and then the grave illness of John Estridge and her apprehensions regarding Ilse; and the increasing difficulties of club problems; and the brutality and hatred which were becoming daily more noticeable in the opposition which she and Ilse were encountering.

After a tiresome day, Palla left a new Hostess House which she had aided to establish, and took a Fifth Avenue bus, too weary to walk home.

The day had been clear and sunny, and she wondered dully why it had left with her the impression of grey skies.

Dusk came before she arrived at her house. She went into her unlighted living room, and threw herself on the lounge, lying with eyes closed and the back of one gloved hand across her temples.

When a servant came to turn up the lamp, Palla had bitten her lip till the blood flecked her white glove. She sat up, declined to have tea, and, after the maid had departed, she remained seated, her teeth busy with her under lip again, her eyes fixed on s.p.a.ce.

After a long while her eyes swerved to note the clock and what its gilt hands indicated.

And she seemed to arrive at a conclusion, for she went to her bedroom, drew a bath, and rang for her maid.

"I want my rose evening gown," she said. "It needs a st.i.tch or two where I tore it dancing."

At six, not being dressed yet, she put on a belted chamber robe and trotted into the living room, as confidently as though she had no doubts concerning what she was about to do.

It seemed to take a long while for the operator to make the connection, and Palla's hand trembled a little where it held the receiver tightly against her ear. When, presently, a servant answered:

"Please say to him that a client wishes to speak to him regarding an investment."

Finally she heard his voice saying: "This is Mr. James Shotwell Junior; who is it wishes to speak to me?"

"A client," she faltered, "--who desires to--to partic.i.p.ate with you in some plan for the purpose of--of improving our mutual relationship."

"Palla." She could scarcely hear his voice.

"I--I'm so unhappy, Jim. Could you come to-night?"

He made no answer.

"I suppose you haven't heard that Jack Estridge is very ill?" she added.

"No. What is the trouble?"

"Pneumonia. He's a little better to-night."

She heard him utter: "That's terrible. That's a bad business." Then to her: "Where is he?"

She told him. He said he'd call at the hospital. But he said nothing about seeing her.

"I wondered," came her wistful voice, "whether, perhaps, you would dine here alone with me this evening."

"Why do you ask me?"

"Because--I--our last quarrel was so bitter--and I feel the hurt of it yet. It hurts even physically, Jim."

"I did not mean to do such a thing to you."

"No, I know you didn't. But that numb sort of pain is always there. I can't seem to get rid of it, no matter what I do."

"Are you very busy still?"

"Yes.... I saw--Marya--to-day."

"Is that unusual?" he asked indifferently.

"Yes. I haven't seen her since--since she and Vanya separated."

"Oh! Have they separated?" he asked with such unfeigned surprise that the girl's heart leaped wildly.

"Didn't you know it? Didn't Marya tell you?" she asked shivering with happiness.

"I haven't seen her since I saw you," he replied.

Palla's right hand flew to her breast and rested there while she strove to control her voice. Then:

"Please, Jim, let us forgive and break bread again together. I--" she drew a deep, unsteady breath--"I can't tell you how our separation has made me feel. I don't quite know what it's done to me, either. Perhaps I can understand if I see you--if I could only see you again----"

There ensued a silence so protracted that a shaft of fear struck through her. Then his voice, pleasantly collected:

"I'll be around in a few minutes."

She was scared speechless when the bell rang--when she heard his unhurried step on the stair.