“Did it?” she asked regretfully. “But I’m not blaming you――now,” he went on. “I did at first. It seemed needlessly cruel and heartless. But I understand now that it was all my fault. You see, dear, I took it for granted, I thought, that you――cared――the way I did. It was my silly conceit.” He thought he heard a little sob beside him, but he resisted the temptation to turn and look. “If only there hadn’t been that kiss,” he continued dreamily. “That――I’ve never quite understood that. Sometimes――I dare say it’s my conceit again――but sometimes I can’t help thinking that you did care――a little――just then! That is the hardest to forgive, dear,――and forget, that kiss. If it wasn’t for the memory of that I think I could stand it better. Why did you do it? _Why?_” There was no answer save the sighing of a little breeze which crept down the slope in a floating shower of dead leaves. “Ah, but I want to know!” he insisted doggedly. “Was it just in fun? Was it merely in pity? It couldn’t have been, I tell you! You never kissed me like that for pity, dear! There was love in your eyes, sweetheart; I saw it; fathoms deep in that purple twilight! Love, do you hear? You can’t deny it, you can’t! And you trembled in my arms! Why did you do it?” he asked sharply. He turned impetuously,――and sighed. He was all alone. The presence had fled. [Illustration] He tossed aside the dead cigarette in his hand and shivered. The breeze was growing as the day passed, a chill October breeze laden with the heavy, melancholy aroma of dying leaves. He arose and retraced his steps to the house. XII. Ethan drank the last drop of excellent black coffee in the tiny cup and swung his chair about so that he faced the cheerfully crackling logs in the library fire-place. He had enjoyed his dinner, and he began to feel delightfully restful and drowsy. The day spent in the open air, with the wind rushing past him, the hearty repast and now the dancing flames were all having their natural effect. He reached lazily for his cigarette case, his gaze travelling idly over the high mantel above him. Then his hand had dropped from his pocket and he was on his feet, peering intently at a small photograph tucked half out of sight behind one of the old Liverpool pitchers which flanked the clock. A moment after he had it in his hands and was bending over it in the glare of the light from the chandelier. [Illustration]