"With a woman, just because she is a woman? As I might love a man because he has all the outward attractions of a man? Have you loved her just for her beauty and despised her mean soul and her vicious mind, and--and despising--still loved?" She hung upon his words, and when he said "no" her heart sank. "No--no, I couldn't do that. That would be--horrible!" He shuddered. She had made Ambrose Sault shudder! Ambrose Sault who spoke calmly of murder, had shuddered at something, which, to him, was worse than murder! The fragrance of sin which had held to her and supported her through the day, was stale and sour and filthy. She shrank away from him, but he held her hands tightly. "Let me go, please," her voice sounded faint. "In a moment--look at me, lady." She raised her eyes to his and they held them. "I am going to say something to you that I never dreamed I would say; I never thought the words would come to me. Look at me, lady, a rough man--old--I'm more than fifty, ugly, with an old man's shape and an old man's hands. Illiterate--I love you. I shall never see you again--I love you. You are beautiful--the most beautiful lady I have seen. But it isn't that. There is something in you that I love--I don't know what--soul--spirit--individuality. I hope I haven't revolted you--I don't think I have." "Ambrose!" She clutched at the hands he was drawing away. "I must tell you--there is nothing to love but what you see, there is no soul--no soul--nothing but weakness and a pitiful cowardice. I love a man who is like that, too. Foul, foul! But beautiful to look at--and, Ambrose, I have given him all that he can take." Not a muscle of his face moved. "I have given him everything--this very day--that is why I sent for you. There must be something in what you say--a spirit in me responds to you--oh, Ambrose, I love him!" She was sobbing against the stained and raveled coat. There was a scent of some pungent oil--turpentine. But he did not speak. His big hand touched her head lightly, smoothing her hair. "You think I'm--what do you think I am?" she asked. "You know," he patted her shoulder gently. "I suppose you are wondering what I am feeling? I will tell you this--I am not hurt. I can't be hurt, for you have lost nothing which I prize. If you were different, you wouldn't like me to say that." He took her face between his rough hands and looked into her eyes. "How very beautiful it is!" he said. She shut her eyes tight to keep back the tears. "I said I wouldn't see you again. Perhaps I won't--but if you want me send for me." She dried her eyes. "I'm a weakling--I wish I was wicked and didn't care--I don't care, really. What has happened is--" she shrugged, "it is the discovery of my own rottenness that has shocked me--nearly driven me mad. You are going now, Ambrose--that is so lovely in you--you even know when to go!"