He was staring at her with parted lips, with dilated eyes, and a death-white face as if he had seen a ghost, and suddenly, without words or bow, or slightest greeting, he turned away and walked to another window, leaning from it as if stifled for want of air. Mrs. Leslie gazed after him, stupefied. She had never beheld such unparalleled rudeness. "Irene might have been a ghost," she said to herself. "What does it mean?" In the next instant Mr. Kenmore walked quickly back to them. He bowed his head humbly before Irene. "Miss Berlin, I crave your pardon," he said. "Pray do not think me rude. Your face startled me as if I had seen a ghost. You are the image of one--who is dead." He looked at her strangely as if expecting her to refute his words, but she only bowed her graceful head and drooped her deep blue eyes before his earnest gaze. Her heart was throbbing wildly with the wonder if he would claim her before all these curious, gazing eyes. It would not have surprised her if he had said: "You are Irene Brooke, whom I married and whom I thought dead. I know not how you came back from your watery grave, but I cannot be deceived in your identity." She stood speechless before him, expecting every moment to hear him utter those words. She wondered what she would say to him in reply. Should she own the truth--she, who had promised to give herself to Julius Revington to purchase honor and happiness for her wronged mother? She could not answer her own question; a mist swam before her eyes, her heart beat in her ears, it seemed to her that her strength failed her, and in another moment she must fall upon the floor at his feet. Through it all she heard his voice breaking clearly, musically upon her tumultuous thoughts. "I am most happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Berlin," he said, in the courteous, kindly voice of a stranger, and extended his hand to her. He had been startled out of himself, but only for a moment. Now he was the cool, polished man of the world again. He spoke to her and looked at her as a stranger. Her heart gave a sudden throb of relief, then sank like ice in her breast. She gave him her hand, her small head crested with sudden pride, though a subtle thrill ran through her veins as his warm fingers clasped hers in a momentary pressure. There is a subtle language in a hand-clasp. Guy Kenmore's pressure of Irene's hand said, as plain as words: "I love you!" Every drop of blood in Irene's heart acknowledged the confession, but her colder reason disdainfully rejected it. "He will not acknowledge me. He is sorry to find that I am living," she said to herself, with a sudden, hot thrill of shame and anger. "Well, I shall not force myself upon him. I can be as cold and indifferent as he is." Her strong will and her latent pride came to her aid. She knew that he regarded her as a spoiled child. A longing came over her to show him that she was a woman--a fascinating woman, too.