"The reason you came!" she repeated, moving from him, with the old proud light coming back into her eyes. "You thought I would be overwhelmed--you thought that I would be so broken that I would be glad--you pitied me--you came to help me? And you were _sure_--" She stopped; her voice was shaking. "Yes, Katharine, I did pity you. Yes, I came to help you if you would let me. But I was not sure. I was sure of nothing but my own obstinate love, which burst out uncontrollably when I thought of you in trouble. I have never thought of you in that way before; you have always had everything. The thought has brought me straight to your side." But she was not softened. "I withdraw all I have said," she answered. "You have taken advantage." "As it happens, you have said nothing. As to taking advantage, of course I took advantage: I was glad enough to see your pale face and sad eyes. But that is because you have always carried things with such a high hand. First and last, I have had a great deal of bad treatment." "That is not true." "Very well; then it is not. It shall be as you please. Do you want me to go down on my knees to you on this wet gravel?" But she still turned from him. "Katharine," he said, in a graver tone, "I am sorry on your account that your fortune is gone, or nearly gone; but on my own, how can I help being glad? It was a barrier between us, which, as I am, and as you are--but principally as you are--would have been, I fear, a hopeless one. I doubt if I should ever have surmounted it. Your loss brings you nearer to me--the woman I deeply love, love in spite of myself. Now if you are my wife--and a tenderly loved wife you will be--you will in a measure be dependent upon your husband, and that is very sweet to a self-willed man like myself. Perhaps in time I can even make it sweet to you." A red spot burned in each of her cheeks. "It is very hard," she said, almost in a whisper. "Well, on the whole, life _is_ hard," answered John Ford. But the expression in his eyes was more tender than his words. At any rate, it seemed to satisfy her. "Do you know what I am going to do?" he said, some minutes later. "I am going to make Benjamin Franklin light a fire on one of those old literary hearths at the château. Your shoes shall be dried in the presence of Corinne herself (who must, however, have worn a much larger pair). And while they are drying I will offer a formal apology for any past want of respect, not only to Corinne, but to all the other portraits, especially to that blue-eyed Madame Necker in her very tight white satin gown. We will drink their healths in some of the native wine. If you insist, I will even make an effort to admire the yellow turban."