"I wish you could tell me what is the matter," he said pityingly and quietly. He did not move toward her, but his tone, with its sympathetic reserve, did the one thing he longed to do; it drew the girl's trust and confidence. The storm of sobs lessened. The hidden face was raised and the burden of fear and distress lifted slowly. "They--have been here!" The words came upon the crest of the last sob. "They--who?" Thornly's eyes contracted. "Mr. Devant and the one he calls Katharine." "Great heavens! And you let them in?" "They found the key and came in." Thornly muttered something inaudibly. "They wanted to see your pictures; they saw everything, and me!" Again the misery spread over the vivid face. Thornly was unable to take his eyes from that pitiful gaze, but for a moment his own position in this play held part. "What did they say?" he asked at length. "Mr. Devant said nothing! I cannot remember what she said--but whatever it was, it made me know that she thinks me--oh! what can I say?--something too awful to bear! And you, you knew what women like her might think! That is why you made me promise not to tell; that is why you kept the door locked! You knew how the people like her would scorn me! and yet you would not save me! Oh! I know it was because of your pictures! You would let folks like her think what they wanted to, so long as you got what you wanted!" The brief confidence in him was gone. There was a power in this fury that shook Thornly as he listened. The blazing face of outraged womanhood confronted him, and the accusation brought truth and torment with it. "Get what I wanted?" he groped blindly in his soul for an honest answer as to what he had wanted. "Yes. What you wanted! You wanted my face, because it is beautiful; because I was like this place, the Hills and dunes! You thought me like them, just a thing to put upon your canvas to make you rich and famous! But I am a girl, like that girl up at Bluff Head! I am as good as she!" "My God!" Thornly looked at the bowed head, that sank again beneath the waves of passion. His eyes grew dim and his face paled. His soul had answered and had passed judgment that gave him grace to breathe freely! "Janet," he said gently, "my poor girl! I am going to wait by the door until you get out of the net and into your shoes; then come to me. I have much, much to say to you." He did not offer, by thought or motion, to assist her. He turned and sat guard by the open door, puffing vigorously at his pipe. Janet disentangled herself and put on her stockings and shoes. Then, shod and with a strange dignity, she crossed the room and stood beside the man, leaning against the jamb of the door for support. Thornly looked up and smiled; then he shook the ashes from his pipe, placed it in his pocket, and offered Janet his stool. She shook her head. "I'll sit on the sand," she said, and sank down outside the door.