“No,” he answered; “I’ll play with my cards on the table. If I grow very tired--very, very tired--if I cannot hold out any longer, well, I may consent--to your living with me as your mother lived with your father. But”--and he stood up briskly--“I’ll tell you this: you’ve strengthened me--you’ve strengthened me in my motive. If you had shuddered at me as you did on that day years ago, I think I should have given in by now. But you didn’t any longer. You’ve come to me; you raised your arms to me. Don’t you see how it has strengthened me? I’m not alone any more; I’m not the motherless boy that I was.... Yes, it’s heaven.” Her hands fell by her side. The sound of wheels filled the room, and ceased. “If I’d repulsed you, you’d have given in?” she said. The door fell violently back, and from the black and radiant figure of Ellida came the triumphant cry: “Kitty’s spoken! Kitty’s spoken! You’ve not deceived me!” II HE found Pauline Leicester in his dining-room upon his return to town. Little and serious, and always with the tiny smile about her lips, she was seated in his deep chair by the fireplace. He was happy and erect, with Katya’s kisses still upon his lips, and for all the world he felt a tenderness. “I got your letter,” she said. “Miss Lascarides has come back; the child has spoken. I suppose you are very happy?” He feared to detect jealousy in her tones; he found only a business-like precision. “I was coming to dine with you,” he said. “Can’t you do with me?” “Oh, we want you so much!” she said. He had a sudden and black premonition. “You’re not on bad terms with Dudley?” he asked. “Tell me,” she said, “you were in town part of the time when Dudley was all alone? Mother died, you know, a week after you left for Athens.” “Oh, poor child!” Grimshaw answered. Her lips moved a little. “She suffered so much, poor dear; she was so brave.” She looked up at him with a queer little smile. “I suppose were born to suffer. It’s up to us to be brave.” “Oh, but Dudley hasn’t been giving you trouble?” he asked. “You aren’t on bad terms with him?” “One could not be on bad terms with Dudley,” she answered. “But he’s giving me trouble.” “The hound!” Grimshaw answered. “Oh, it isn’t what he does, it’s what he is,” she said quickly. She rose and put her little hand upon his arm. “Tell me, Robert,” she said, “what has happened to him He’s very ill.” Grimshaw made a step back. “Not tuberculosis, really?” he asked. “I am sure he’s very ill,” she said, “mentally; he’s quite altered. What’s to be done?” “My poor girl,” Grimshaw voiced his tenderness and concern. “Tell me,” she adjured him, “what happened to him? It’s something that’s happened. He couldn’t do anything. Tell me the truth!” “How should I know?” he asked. “How should I know?”