Never doubting that he could bring to her an unsullied past, she was,
delicately, in finest woman-fashion, laying her heart open to him. She
knew that he had little to offer and yet--and yet--she was--willing!
Truedale knew this to be true. And then he decided he must, even at this
late day, tell Lynda of the past. For her sake he dare not venture any
further concealment. Once she understood--once she recovered from her
surprise and shock--she would be his friend, he felt confident of that;
but she would be spared any deeper personal interest. It was Lynda's
magnificent steadfastness that now appealed to Truedale. With the
passing of his own season of madness, he looked upon this calm serenity
of her character with deepest admiration.
"The best any man should hope for," he admitted--turning, as he thought,
his back upon his yearning--"any man who has played the fool as I have,
is the sympathetic friendship of a good woman. What right has a man to
fall from what he knows a woman holds highest, and then look to her to
change her ideals to fit his pattern?"
Arriving at this conclusion, Truedale wrapped the tattered shreds of his
self-respect about him and accepted, as best he could, the prospect of
Lynda's adjustment to the future.
Brace and Lynda did not return in time to see Truedale that night. At
twelve, with a resigned sigh, he put away his play and went to his
lonely rooms in the tall apartment farther uptown.
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