The day came when, walking by her side through the large gardens of the Dower House, he told her the story of his murdered love. She was strangely interested. “And you live but to avenge her?” she said. “That is my one object in life,” he replied. “And when you have done that?” she continued. “I care not,” he interrupted. “Perhaps you can understand the love that fills a man’s whole heart, that burns his whole soul, that destroys all else in him! Such a love as that was mine for the beautiful girl a murderer’s hand laid in an early grave.” “You are a hero,” she said, “one of the heroes of old come back again. How I shall admire you now, how I shall reverence you! A man in the prime of life, with health, strength, wealth and everything that can make life bright, content to care only for the memory of a dead love! I thought such men lived only in books. I am better for having met one.” CHAPTER XXXVII. FAIR WOMEN. Praise from a woman’s lips is sweet to man. As a matter of course, when this incense is offered they look superior and pretend that it is not needful, yet it is none the less agreeable. Kenelm Eyrle had never known how sweet it was. The only woman he had ever loved, Clarice, had not returned his affection, and had never, perhaps, in the whole course of her life uttered one word of praise or homage to him. So that it was pleasant to him to remember how the beautiful Spanish face had glowed with warmest admiration, how the dark eyes had grown brighter as she had called him a hero. Of course it was all nonsense--nothing but woman’s nonsense--this exaggerated manner of looking at everything--yet it was undeniably pleasant to remember. It did not prevent him from looking forward with something of delight to his next visit to the Dower House. He was not in love with Mrs. Payton, he whose heart lay in Clarice’s grave; he was not in love with her, but he found the companionship of a beautiful and intellectual woman very sweet. The windows formed a very agreeable pretext for constant visiting. They were very handsome--they were his own design--and he liked to watch the progress made in the work. She said no more about herself. She did not offer, as she had once suggested, to tell him her story. She seemed to have forgotten the half-violent moods, the strange impulses that had led her to say so much to him. She talked no more of the injustice done to women, of the tyranny of men. A calm, sweet, tranquil content was coming over her. He looked at her one day as she stood under the rich, rippling foliage of the lime trees, a golden light falling on her dark, queenly head and beautiful face. It was a moment when she had seemingly forgotten all that made her life dreary. She was watching a bird feed its little ones, and the smile on her face was open and frank as that of a child.