"Oh, I've had a row at the _Herald_, and have quit.But I'll get another place tomorrow.""Of course.I wish you'd fix up that play the way Drumley suggested.""Maybe I shall.We'll see."

"Anything else wrong?"

"Only the same old trouble.I love you too much.Too damn much,"he added in a tone not intended for her ears."Weak fool--that's what I am.Weak fool.I've got _you_, anyhow.Haven't I?""Yes," she said."I'd do anything for you--anything.""As long as I keep my eyes on you," said he, half mockingly.

"I'm weak, but you're weaker.Aren't you?"

"I guess so.I don't know." And she drew a long breath, nestled into his arms, and upon his breast, with her perfumed hair drowsing his senses.

He soon slept; when he awoke, toward noon, he did not disturb her.He shaved and bathed and dressed, and was about to go out when she called him."Oh, I thought you were asleep," said he.

"I can't wait for you to get breakfast.I must get a move on.""Still blue?"

"No, indeed." But his face was not convincing."So long, pet.""Aren't you going to kiss me good-by?"

He laughed tenderly, yet in bitter self-mockery too."And waste an hour or so? Not much.What a siren you are!"She put her hand over her face quickly.

"Now, perhaps I can risk one kiss." He bent over her; his lips touched her hair.She stretched out her hand, laid it against his cheek."Dearest," she murmured.

"I must go."

"Just a minute.No, don't look at me.Turn your face so that Ican see your profile--so!" She had turned his head with a hand that gently caressed as it pushed."I like that view best.Yes, you are strong and brave.You will succeed! No--I'll not keep you a minute." She kissed his hand, rested her head for an instant on his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly flung herself to the far side of the bed, with her face toward the wall.

"Go to sleep again, lazy!" cried he."I'll try to be home about dinner-time.See that you behave today! Good lord, how hard it is to leave you! Having you makes nothing else seem worth while.

Good-by!"

And he was off.She started to a sitting posture, listened to the faint sound of his descending footsteps.She darted to the window, leaned out, watched him until he rounded the corner into Broadway.Then she dropped down with elbows on the window sill and hands pressing her cheeks; she stared unseeingly at the opposite house, at a gilt cage with a canary hopping and chirping within.And once more she thought all the thoughts that had filled her mind in the sleepless hours of that night and morning.Her eyes shifted in color from pure gray to pure violet--back and forth, as emotion or thought dominated her mind.She made herself coffee in the French machine, heated the milk she brought every day from the dairy, drank her _cafe au lait_ slowly, reading the newspaper advertisements for "help wanted--female"--a habit she had formed when she first came to New York and had never altogether dropped.When she finished her coffee she took the scissors and cut out several of the demands for help.

She bathed and dressed.She moved through the routine of life--precisely as we all do, whatever may be in our minds and hearts.She went out, crossed Long Acre and entered the shop of a dealer in women's cast-off clothes.She reappeared in the street presently with a fat, sloppy looking woman in black.She took her to the rooms, offered for sale her entire wardrobe except the dress she had on and one other, the simply trimmed sailor upon her head, the ties on her feet and one pair of boots and a few small articles.After long haggling the woman made a final price--ninety-five dollars for things, most of them almost new, which had cost upwards of seven hundred.Susan accepted the offer; she knew she could do no better.The woman departed, returned with a porter and several huge sweets of wrapping paper.The two made three bundles of the purchases; the money was paid over; they and Susan's wardrobe departed.

Next, Susan packed in the traveling bag she had brought from Cincinnati the between seasons dress of brown serge she had withheld, and some such collection of bare necessities as she had taken with her when she left George Warham's.Into the bag she put the pistol from under Spenser's handkerchiefs in the third bureau drawer.When all was ready, she sent for the maid to straighten the rooms.While the maid was at work, she wrote this note:

DEAREST--Mr.Drumley will tell you why I have gone.You will find some money under your handkerchiefs in the bureau.When you are on your feet again, I may come--if you want me.It won't be any use for you to look for me.I ought to have gone before, but I was selfish and blind.Good-by, dear love--I wasn't so bad as you always suspected.I was true to you, and for the sake of what you have been to me and done for me I couldn't be so ungrateful as not to go.Don't worry about me.I shall get on.

And so will you.It's best for us both.Good-by, dear heart--Iwas true to you.Good-by.

She sealed this note, addressed it, fastened it over the mantel in the sitting-room where they always put notes for each other.

And after she had looked in each drawer and in the closet at all his clothing, and had kissed the pillow on which his head had lain, she took her bag and went.She had left for him the ninety-five dollars and also eleven dollars of the money she had in her purse.She took with her two five-dollar bills and a dollar and forty cents in change.

The violet waned in her eyes, and in its stead came the gray of thought and action.

********THE END OF VOLUME I*******