Randall made a wry face. That was all.

"Yes, it's true, Harry, G.o.d's truth. I asked you a peculiar question a while ago,--asked whether I ought to marry. I didn't mean it; I was just maudlin. I know without asking that I mustn't. Even if Elice would consent--and I think she would consent yet, she's game--I mustn't. I'm waking up more all the time."

"Steve, you're maddening--impossible. I tell you, Elice will never change. You know it without my telling you."

"Yes, I know. It's I who have changed." He remembered suddenly. "Yes; it's I who have changed," he repeated slowly.

"Well, you'll change back again then." The effort to be severe and commonplace was becoming c.u.mulatively difficult. "You must."

"Must change back--and marry Elice?"

"Yes," desperately.

"No, not if by a miracle I could change back."

"Why? For heaven's sake, why? Don't be a fool, man."

"Why?" without heat. "Do you really wish to know why?"

"Yes."

Armstrong deliberated.

"You yourself are one reason, friend Harry."

"I--I don't understand."

"Yes, you do. I'm not without observation. You yourself wouldn't advise me to marry now."

"Steve!"

"You wouldn't, and you know you wouldn't. No offence. We're simply looking things squarely in the eye. It's merely the tragedy of pennies among evolved humans who require dollars to live--and must live. Am I not right, friend of mine?"

No severity this time, no commonplace--nothing.

"I repeat, no offence; just square in the eye. Am I not right?"

"Right? I don't know. I can't answer." A sudden blaze. "You have no right to suggest--"

"No. Pardon me." Armstrong's face worked in spite of himself. "Forget that I did suggest, Harry. It was brutal of me."

Randall said nothing.

"But with Elice and myself it's different. I've awakened in time.

Providence, perhaps, sometimes when we least expect it--"

"Steve!" Randall had glanced up quickly, self for the moment in abeyance.

"What do you intend doing, tell me that?"

"Doing?" It was almost surprise. "Have you any honest doubt yet, after what I've told you?" He halted, scrutinizing his friend's face, and seemed satisfied. "I'm going to release her; release her unqualifiedly. I can at least be man enough to do that."

"And if you do--what of yourself?"

Armstrong smiled forcedly, a slow, mirthless smile. "Never mind about myself. I've glowed genially for a long time, tried after my own fashion to warm a hearth somewhere; but at last I'm burned out, nothing but cinders. Never mind about myself. The discussion is futile."

Randall hesitated; then he gestured impotently.

"Elice, then--For her sake at least--"

"It's for her sake I'll do it, because she'll never do it herself. I repeat, I can at least be man enough to do that much for her, make amends to that extent." He looked straight before him, seeing nothing. "She'll be happy yet, when I'm well out of the way."

"Steve!" Argument would not come, reb.u.t.tal; only that cry that acknowledged its own helplessness. "I can't bear to have things go that way. I know you both so well, like you so much."

"I realize that," dully; "but it's not your fault,--not any one's fault in particular that I can see."

Randall did not gesture this time. Even that avenue seemed barred.

"If I could only say something to influence you, to convince you--something adequate."

"There's nothing to be said that I can see, or done, for that matter.

It's like a church catechism, cut and dried generations ahead."

It was the final word, and for a long time they sat there silent, unconscious of the pa.s.sing minutes; alike gazing at the blank wall which circ.u.mstance had thrown in the way, alike looking for an opening where opening there was none. At last, when the silence had become unbearable, Randall roused, and with an effort forced a commonplace.

"Anyway, as yet you're reckoning without your host--in this case Elice,"

he formalized. "After you've seen her--"

"It will merely be ended then--that is all."

"I'm not so sure, even yet."

"I repeat that I know, know to finality. Some things one can't question when they're awake. Moreover, I have a reason for knowing."

It was a new note, that last comment; a note of repression where all before had been unrepressed. Moreover, it was a lead intentionally offered.

"What is it, Steve?" asked the other simply. "There's something yet which you haven't told me."

"Yes." Once more Armstrong's eyes were on the wall straight before him, the wall he did not see. "I merely suggested it a bit ago. I said Elice had drifted away while I was being patient. At first that drifting was very slow, so slow that I didn't realize it myself; during the last few months she's been going fast." The speaker moistened his lips unconsciously; but, watching, the other noticed. "Things seldom happen in this world without a reason, and they didn't in this case." Suddenly, without warning, he whirled, met the other eye to eye. "Do I need to suggest more?" he asked steadily.

"Suggest--more?" Randall's look was blank. "I don't believe I understand."

"I mean concerning--the reason I mentioned. Haven't you noticed anything yourself, had any intimation?"

"I know nothing, have noticed nothing."

"No?" Armstrong's scrutiny was merciless, all but incredulous. "Nothing concerning Elice and--and Darley Roberts--not a whisper?"

Against his will Randall's eyes dropped. At last he understood.