make up my mind. The triangle, as you call it, must be solved for me. I can’t solve it myself. I compare the two of you, weigh you, measure you. I remember Dick and all our past years. And I consult my heart for you. And I don’t know. I don’t know. You are a great man, my great lover. But Dick is a greater man than you. You — you are more clay, more — I grope to describe you — more human, I fancy. And that is why I love you more� or at least I think perhaps I do.

“But wait,” she resisted him, prisoning his eager hand in hers. “There is more I want to say. I remember Dick and all our past years. But I remember him to-day, as well, and to-morrow. I cannot bear the thought that any man should pity my husband, that you should pity him, and pity him you must when I confess