He turned from the sight of her sympathy; forced himself to continue. “I am not an honest osteopath, Miss Trent. My success is founded on the fact that I am magnetic. You felt that the first day you met me. You remember? See how strangely I can make you feel with a touch.” “Yes, I remember. Oh, don’t--please don’t do that again!” Even in freeing her wrist from the slim pulsant fingers which had clasped it, she realized that her sensations justified his boast. Fearing his touch, she liked it. “Never mind, I won’t. I don’t want to attract you that way. You can trust me. I won’t touch you again--that is, not until you wish me to. Try to get what I’m telling you. It may kill me with you, but there’s no other way than to make a clean breast of it. I’ve built up my practice on nothing more or less than animal magnetism. Excites through the touch system. Gives sensations instead of curing them. Lord help me, she doesn’t see when I tell her how low I am!” He paused as if in hope of help from her. But Dolores could not speak. She was trying to believe that she had misunderstood. “Lately I find that I’m getting psychic control,” he continued. “A nice little lot of harm I could do in the world if I wanted to.” His voice was husky. In the moment before he dropped his face into his hands his clean smile showed again. “But I don’t want to. I hate this life. I hate my success. I hate being called in the profession ‘The Ladies’ Pet.’ Did you know I was called ‘The Ladies’ Pet’?” “I know,” said Dolores, “that Mrs. Cabot thinks you are a remarkable man.” “_She_ should. She made me what I am to-day and to-morrow--handed me over to her social set. She’s satisfied, if I’m not. She knows and I know that she can unmake me just as easily.” “Why should she unmake you? She seems to take a pride in you and in your admiration for her.” “My _what_?” “Only this afternoon, Dr. Shayle, she was telling me what you had said about her powers of introspection and concentration.” “Her powers of---- You little chump!” He glanced toward the stairway; controlled his incipient laugh; added guardedly: “She hasn’t enough concentration to write a postal card.” “Then why do you flatter her so?” “Ladies’ pets are trained to meet the demands for flattery of their petters. Catherine has a certain surface shrewdness, yes. But you can’t ‘reach’ her. Don’t worry about her. Worry about me, Dolores. Tut, don’t scold me! You wouldn’t if you knew how long I’ve wanted to call you Dolores to your face. I am doing what is awfully hard for me, not to have you point out my weaknesses, but in the hope that you’ll encourage me to----” With a smothered imprecation, he stopped. From his slumped position he had seen before Dolores that Mrs. Cabot was ascending the stairs. At the top of the climb she stopped and saw them. She was dressed in a negligee of yellow satin and lace and looked exceedingly angry.