“Never mind, kid,” Charlie said sympathetically. “Babe ain’t the kind to stay tied to anyone man. She’ll give this guy the air, too, before long. He’s just another man in her life. He won’t be the last. She’s got both good and bad in her make-up, kid, and she’s given you the best she’s ever given any man. Buck up! You’re goin’ to be middleweight champeen. That ought to make it easier to stand.”

“I don’t care no more, Charlie,” said the Bearcat, and there was a sob in his voice. “I’m only glad you ain’t sore at me no more. I’m only gonna think of winnin’ the champeenship for you. If I can make good for you, Charlie, that’s the best feelin’ I’ll ever have. That’s all I want now. I know I ain’t enough for Babe. I guess—I guess she was just too beautiful for me. Like a dream, y’know, Charlie, that’s gone when you wake up. It won’t be so hard doin’ wit’out her now. Seems like I’m used to doin’ wit’out her. I love her though, Charlie! God, how I love her! I’ll always love her. . . .”

The Bearcat buried his face in the pillow, to hide from Charlie the tears that trickled down his cheeks.

Babe is in Paris now with Wayne Baldwin, and they are happy together. But what of the days when the glamor of that gay city has worn off? What will happen when Babe meets another man that appeals to her senses more than Baldwin or possibly has far greater wealth? It will be the old, old story over again. Even if she decides to marry Baldwin, that would not prevent her having a lover, or lovers, on the side. That is Babe Gordon. That is her life. Nothing can change her. She isn’t even certain she will not slip away tomorrow to a rendezvous with some Paris apache whom she has seen the night before. Nothing is certain about Babe Gordon except her desire. . . . And that desire she will find the means of gratifying as long as she is young. After that . . . but Babe lives too intensely in the present to consider the future.

As for Baldwin, the frequent sight of black and white mingling together in Paris brings always the memory of Johnson’s face when he had shot him. He cannot avoid thinking of Babe’s white body and Johnson’s black body, darkness mating with dawn. It is terrible, and yet it gives him a sensual thrill like the one he received when he first saw Babe and the black man in the Harlem Breakfast Club. He has Babe now to himself. He is happy. But the black and white pattern is indelibly woven into the tapestry of his memory. He will never forget. . . .