But he was suddenly awed by a firm “Stop there! I have always tried to be pure-minded, high-souled, sinless, but all this did not shield me from insult,” she cried, with a look of self-pitying horror. [Illustration: “But he was suddenly awed by a firm ‘Stop there!’” Page 50.] He drew back, and his temper mounted to white heat, but he managed to preserve his suave composure. “My dear girl, you misunderstand me; art makes its own plea for pardon. You are not angry, are you?” She looked straight at him, her bosom rose and fell with her quick breathing, and there was such an eloquent scorn in her face that he winced under it, as though struck by a scourge. “You are not worth my anger; one must have something to be angry with, and you are nothing--neither man, nor beast, for men are brave and beasts tell no lies. Out of my way, coward!” And she stood waiting for him to obey, her whole frame vibrating with indignation like a harp struck too roughly. The air of absolute authority with which she spoke, stung him even through his hypocrisy and arrogance. He bit his lips and attempted to speak again, but she was gone from the studio. Every step of her way she saw a serpent crawl back and forth across her hurried path, and she mused to herself: “Let him keep the money, my virtue is worth more to me than all that glitters or is gold.” CHAPTER VI. WHITE ROSES. Robert Milburn, bent at his desk, his fair head in his hands, was bewildered, angry, in despair. “Can this be true?” he asked himself. “Is there a possibility of truth in it?” The air of the gray room grew close, oppressive to the spirit, and at the darkening window he arose from the desk. He put on his long rain-coat, and with a hollow, ominous sound, the door closed behind him and he left the house. As along he went, Robert caught sight of the bony face of an American millionaire and a beautiful woman in furs, behind the rain-streaked panes of a flashing carriage. On the other side he observed a gigantic iron building from which streams of shop-people poured down every street homeward; these ghastly weary human machines made a pale concourse through the sleet. Further on his way a girl stood waiting for some one on the curb. He looked at her, dark hair curled on her white neck, her attire poor and common; but she was pretty, with her dark eyes. A reckless, plebeian little piece of earth, shivering, her hands bare and rough, the sleet whipping her face, on the side of which was a discoloration--the result of a blow, perchance. Then he turned his eyes from her who had drawn them.