into the sea," she added quietly.

He glanced at her quickly.

"You are ill? You are afraid of death?"

"Afraid of death? No, I am seeking it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I do not wish to live any more— I'm tired."

He looked about him at the charming, flower-scented room, at the vibrant figure of the girl.

"You mean you intend to end it—deliberately?"

"Yes. Why not? There is not a living soul dependent on me to be affected by my going."

"You don't think it's cowardice?"

"I'm brave enough to be a coward. I've fought my way through and over every obstacle—even you say I've been successful. Now I'm tired— I've got nothing to fight for, I'm Irish, and I'm lonesome."

"But you're just at the top, ready to enjoy what you've fought for."

"There's nothing in that. It's only the fight that counts."

He understood that.

"Why don't you marry, or have you?"

"No, I have not. I don't want money or position. I can't marry a man who loves me when I'm only fond of him. I'd rather marry a stranger."

"What made you begin the fight?"

"I wanted things for daddy, and he died just before I won out."

"Why don't you interest yourself in some cause? Women nowadays are——"

"Suffrage or charity? The Irish are never satisfied with causes, man——"

"There's Home Rule," he smiled.

"The women have it," she retorted.

"But it's ridiculous! Why, you've got everything in the world."

"Do you think that?" she challenged him directly.

He walked over to the window and looked out at the early winter sunset. Presently he came back and faced her.

"No," he answered.

She nodded.

"I've thought it all out. I think I have the right. I'm at the top of my wave now, I don't want to sink slowly down into the trough of old age and mediocrity. I'm going."

"When?"

She laughed.

"Oh, the day of execution isn't set. I want to get my house in order."

"How are you going?"

"I don't know. They're all rather ugly. I wanted you to have directions. I want you sent for."

"Why did you select me?" curiously.

"Because I thought you would understand."

He walked up and down the room, his tall head bent, his eyes on the floor. She watched him absently, her mind far away. He roused her by stopping before her.

"I do understand. I offer no opposition. You're of age, you know what you want. I make you a counter proposition. We will call a taxi, go to the courthouse, get a license and be married. We will spend six months together, as partners only. We each go on with our own work, but we share our problems and our pleasures. At the end of the six months, if you still want to go, I'll help you."

She stared at him, utterly aghast.

"But I—I hardly know you!"

"You said you'd rather marry a stranger than a man you were merely fond of—so would I. I've felt this loneliness you speak of. I'd like to make this experiment. We are neither of us handicapped by sentiment—we start even."

"But you don't like me—much."

"Enough. As well as you like me. You're a good gambler. Get your hat and come along."

"Six months! What difference will it make in a thousand years?" she questioned.

"None."

She stood on tiptoe, her two hands on his shoulders, and looked long into his eyes. He looked into hers frankly. In the end she nodded, went into the other room, came back at once, in hat and furs.

"It's a new kind of suicide," she smiled, "come on."

II

In the cab a sort of terror of this madness came upon Bob. She glanced at this strange man beside her as if she had never seen him before. His handsome, aquiline profile was toward her as he gazed at the crowds passing. What was in his mind? Was he, too, longing to run?

"It's getting colder. People are scurrying," he said casually. She steadied at his calm tone. A new courage, a new sense of adventure began to stir in her.

They said very little on the drive; in fact, except for necessary questions they were almost entirely silent until they walked out of the courthouse, man and wife. Trent put her into the cab, gave an order, and got in after her. She looked at him intently: so much depended on these first few minutes.

"Well, partner," he smiled, and took her gloved hand in a firm clasp for a minute. Her sigh of relief made him smile again, and then they both laughed. "I told him to go to my apartment. We'll make some tea and I'll pack a bag. I'd better join you at the hotel."

"Your apartment is too——"

"You couldn't be comfortable there with your maid."

They disembarked at his quarters, and Bob made a tour of inspection.

She hoped for an intimate glance into the man's personality, but the rooms were as impersonal as he was. Just books and pipes and man-litter.

She made the tea while he packed his things.

"Aren't you sorry to leave this?" she asked him.

"Well, you can't have your cake and eat it. Every experiment has some disadvantages," he laughed.

"When my season closes I'll keep house for you. I'm good at it."

"Thank the Lord for that!"

"No, I won't drag you over the 'well-known continent of Europe' for three months," she laughed, and he nodded gratefully. "I have a little place up in the hills where I go in the summer."

"So have I."

"Well, how will we manage it?"

"Fifty-fifty," said he. "Half at yours and half at mine."

They drank their tea and put away the things. When they were ready to go, Bob said, "I like this man-place."

"We'll come here when you're tired of your girly-girly garden."

They went to the hotel and announced their marriage to the manager and the clerk. Trent looked at a suite adjoining Barbara's.

"It's all right. I'll send my things up to-morrow. Now you go and rest. What am I to call you?"

"Everybody calls me Bob."

"Then I'll say Barbara. Do you want to dine upstairs or in the restaurant?"

"Restaurant," quickly.

His swift glance brought explanation.

"You embarrass me a little—yet. I have to get used to you, and the restaurant seems less—intimate."

He nodded, smiling.

"When do you go to the theatre?"

"Seven o'clock. Are you coming?"

"Certainly."

"Dinner at six-fifteen. You'll hate that, won't you?"

"There may be compensations," dryly. He held the door open for her, between the two suites. "Oh, bother that boy, he carried off the key to this door," he added.

"We don't need it," she said.

"Thank you," he bowed.

Dinner was hurried and unsatisfactory. For the most part they were silent. Bob needed her reserves for the night's work, and deliberately set herself against the impulse to entertain him. He talked to her, as they drove to the theatre, so quietly and casually, that she knew she had dreamed it all—that he would go out of her life at the stage door.

"Coming around later?" she asked.

"Yes."

She nodded and disappeared. When half an hour later she darted out on the stage before an enraptured audience, he found himself a part of the mob spirit which acclaimed her. Her charm was irresistible. He felt her as an artist, not as a woman, but she moved him keenly by her masterly performance. As the