Hate is terrible, Anita, but love can be more terrible." At the Willoughby she let me help her descend from the electric, waited until I sent it away, walked beside me into the building. My man, Sanders, had evidently been listening for the elevator; the door opened without my ringing, and there he was, bowing low.

She acknowledged his welcome with that regard for "appearances" which training had made instinctive. In the center of my-our-drawing-room table was a mass of gorgeous roses. "Where did you get 'em?" I asked him, in an aside.

"The elevator boy's brother, sir," he replied, "works in the florist's shop just across the street, next to the church. He happened to be downstairs when I got your message, sir. So I was able to get a few flowers.

I'm sorry, sir, I hadn't a little more time." "You've done noble," said I, and I shook hands with him warmly. Anita was greeting those flowers as if they were a friend suddenly appearing in a time of need.