Craig's hand convulsively gripped Jean's.
"They've let her go?" he questioned. "She's free?"
"Sure—an' callin' on her friends. Hadn't you heard? Mrs. Chapman left a note ownin' up. If they'd found it sooner, this party would have had a pleasanter afternoon. Still, I guess she's plenty satisfied. They say a vaudeville house has offered her five hundred a week. She'd better cinch the deal to-night. It will all be forgotten to-morrow."
Atwood strained the white-faced figure to his breast.
"You heard him, Jean? He's right. It will be forgotten to-morrow."
From that dear shelter she, too, foresaw a kindlier future.
"To-morrow," she echoed.
