variety show, can't you take a friend and go to-night?”      

       “Thanks; I guess I'll not go out.”      

       Then, unexpectedly, she bent her head against a chair-back and fell to silent crying. K. let her cry for a moment. Then:—     

       “Now—tell me about it.”      

       “I'm just worried; that's all.”      

       “Let's see if we can't fix up the worries. Come, now, out with them!”      

       “I'm a wicked woman, Mr. Le Moyne.”      

       “Then I'm the person to tell it to. I—I'm pretty much a lost soul myself.”      

       He put an arm over her shoulders and drew her up, facing him.     

       “Suppose we go into the parlor and talk it out. I'll bet things are not as bad as you imagine.”      

       But when, in the parlor that had seen Mr. Schwitter's strange proposal of the morning, Tillie poured out her story, K.'s face grew grave.     

       “The wicked part is that I want to go with him,” she finished. “I keep thinking about being out in the country, and him coming into supper, and everything nice for him and me cleaned up and waiting—O my God! I've always been a good woman until now.”      

       “I—I understand a great deal better than you think I do. You're not wicked. The only thing is—”      

       “Go on. Hit me with it.”      

       “You might go on and be very happy. And as for the—for his wife, it won't do her any harm. It's only—if there are children.”      

       “I know. I've thought of that. But I'm so crazy for children!”      

       “Exactly. So you should be. But when they come, and you cannot give them a name—don't you see? I'm not preaching morality. God forbid that I—But no happiness is built on a foundation of wrong. It's been tried before, Tillie, and it doesn't pan out.”      

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