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The suggestion of a smile played about the man’s mouth.

“You’ve succeeded, perhaps, in finding that for which we searched so long in vain, an aesthetic, non-corporeal love?”

“I refuse to answer a question which was intended as an insult.”

The words out of her mouth, the woman regretted them.

“Though quick yourself to take offence, you seem at no great pains to avoid giving affront to another.” The man voiced the reprimand without the twitch of an eyelid, and finished with another question: “Have you any reason for doing as you’ve done, other than the one you gave?”

“Reason! Reason!” Camilla Maurice stared again. “Isn’t it reason enough that I love him, and don’t love you? Isn’t it sufficient reason to one who has lived until middle life in darkness that a ray of light is in sight? Of all people in the world, you’re the one who should understand the reason best!”

“Would any of those arguments be sufficient to break another contract?”

“No, but one I didn’t mention would. Even when I lived with you, I was of no more importance than a half-dozen other women.”

“You didn’t protest at time of the agreement. You knew then my belief and,” Arnold paused meaningly, “your own.”

A memory of the past came to the woman; the dark, lonely past, which, even yet, after so many years, came to her like a nightmare; the time when she was a stranger in a strange town, without joy of past or hope of future; most lonely being on God’s earth, a woman with an ambition–and without friends.

“I was mad–I see it now–lonely mad. I met you. Our work was alike, and we were very useful to each other.” One white hand made motion of repugnance at the thought. “I was mad, I say.”

“Is that your excuse for ignoring a solemn obligation?” Arnold looked her through. “Is that your excuse for leaving me for another, without a word of explanation, or even the conventional form of a divorce?”

“It was just that explanation–this–I wished to avoid. It’s hard for us both, and useless.”

“Useless!” The man quickly picked up the word. “Useless! I don’t like the suggestion of that word. It hints of death, and old age, and hateful things. It has no place with the living.”

He drew a paper from his pocket, slowly, and spread it on his knee.

“Pardon me for again recalling past history, Eleanor; but to use a word that is dead!… You must have forgotten–” The writing, a dainty, feminine hand, was turned toward her, tauntingly, compellingly.

The man waited for some response; but Camilla Maurice was silent. That bit of paper, the shadow of a seemingly impossible past, made her, for the time, question her identity, almost doubt it.

Five years ago, almost to the day, high up in a city building, in a dainty little room, half office, half atelier, a man and a woman had copied an agreement, each for the other, and had sworn an oath ever to remain true to that solemn bond…. She had brought nothing to him, but herself; not even affection. He, on the other hand, had saved her from a life of drudgery by elevating her to a position where, free of the necessity of struggling for a bare existence, she might hope to consummate the fruition of at least a part of her dreams. On her part….

“Witnesseth: The said Eleanor Owen is at liberty to follow her own inclinations as she may see fit; she is to remain free of any and all responsibilities and restrictions such as customarily attach to the supervision of a household, excepting as she may elect to exercise her wifely prerogatives; being absolutely free to pursue whatsoever occupation or devices she may desire or choose, the same as if she were yet a spinster….

“In Consideration of Which: The said Eleanor Owen agrees never so to comport herself that by word or conduct will she bring ridicule…. dishonor upon the name….”