Even under her cosmetics, the girl grew a shade paler. In a trembling, uncertain voice, she faltered:
"Say good-by?"
"Just that," said Brockton firmly.
She looked distressed. The muscles about the corners of her mouth worked convulsively.
"I wouldn't know how to begin. It will hurt him terribly."
"It will be worse if you don't," insisted the broker. "He'll like you the better for telling him. It would be honest, and that is what he expects."
She knew he was right, and that there was no way out of it, yet this was the hardest ordeal of all. In her heart she knew she was lying—lying to Brockton, lying to John, lying to herself. But she must lie, for she had not the strength to resist. The world was too hard, the suffering too great. What could she tell John—that she had ceased to love him and gone back to her old life? How he would despise her! Yet it must be——. Her eyes blinded with scalding tears, she asked:
"Must I write—now?"
"I think you should," he replied kindly but firmly.
Dropping onto a seat near the table, she took up a pen.