She was like a cat, also, in the extraordinary suppleness of her limbs. She curled herself up now on the soft, white rug before the fire, and leaned back on a couch near, and fanned herself with a great feather fan. "Now tell me something of your life," she said, looking up at Webster, who had drawn a chair toward the fire also. "What part of it?" he asked, looking down smilingly at the graceful woman before him. "Oh, all of it! Were you a good boy, or a bad boy?" "Distinctly a bad boy." "And a good man, or a bad man?" "I've had no time to be either; I am simply a working man." "And--and--how shall I put it? You are not married, I presume?" "No, I am not." "Nor engaged?" "Nor engaged." "Happy man! You are free, then--absolutely free to do what you like?" "I have at least no one to control me." "I have no one to control me, and yet I am not free," said Kathleen Weir, half-bitterly. "I think I ought to look up that husband of mine, and see if he has not given me good cause to get rid of him altogether. What do you think, Mr. Webster?" "I think it would be only fair to yourself." "I am beginning to think so, too. There is the three hundred a year to be considered, certainly, but I can command a good income now. Yes--I should rather be free." "And would you marry again?" "How can I tell?" And a wave of color rose to her face. "If I did I would not marry as Linda Falconer wishes to do. I would not marry some titled boy for the sake of his name; I would marry--well, a man who has made his own." "You love ambition in men, then?" "Yes, distinctly yes! I should like to look up to the man I married, not down." "What is your present husband, Mr. Temple, like?" asked Webster, somewhat abruptly. "Have you a portrait of him?" "I believe I have, somewhere; as to looks he was all right." "May I see his portrait? I may know him by sight; I may help you to be free." Kathleen Weir rose from her lowly position, and crossing the room, opened an unlocked marquetry cabinet. "There used to be one here somewhere," she said, "but I have not seen it for ages. The last time I saw it I remember I turned its face to the wall. Ah, here it is--yes, this is John Temple." And she shook a little dust off the photograph as she spoke. Webster eagerly crossed the room and took the photograph from her hand. For a moment he did not recognize the face; it was certainly not a copy of the same photograph that Miss Webster had shown him. It was a picture of a young man--almost a boy--but as he closely scanned the features he became convinced that the John Temple he was now gazing at was the same John Temple who had married May Churchill. He muttered something between his teeth which made Kathleen Weir look quickly up in his face. "Do you know anything of him?" she asked. "I may; I don't quite know. Will you let me keep this photograph for one day? I wish to compare it with another."