Seating herself on the floor, with her legs curled about her and her ankles peeping out from under her skirt, she began to wrap up presents. “Please be nice,” she implored him in a little voice, “because I really do like you. Sit down here beside me and put your finger on the knots, so that I can tie them.” He sat down opposite to her. That wasn’t quite what she had intended. She made a mischievous face at him. “It isn’t a question of being nice,” he said quietly; “it’s a question of being honest. I’ve booked my berth on the _Mauretania_ for to-morrow night.” She gave a scarcely perceptible start. When she spoke, it was without raising her eyes. “You did that once before. You can’t play the same trick twice.” “It isn’t a trick this time.” She eyed him cloudily, still persuaded that it was. “Are you saying that because of what I told you about going to California? I thought you were too big and splendid to return tit for tat.” “It isn’t tit for tat I booked this afternoon, before I knew about California.” She gave her shoulders a shrug of annoyance. “Well, you know your business best.” “I don’t; that’s why I’m telling you. I’m not being unkind. My business may be yours.” At last she took him seriously. “I don’t see how it can be; you’d better explain. But first tell me: are you trying to imitate Horace? Because if you are, it won’t work.” “I’m not.” “Then light me a cigarette and let’s be sensible.” Seated on the floor in the dim-lit room, with the Christmas presents strewn around, he told her. The first part was the old story of how he had dreamt about her from a child. “You know that’s true, Princess?” “And I’ve dreamt about you,” she nodded. “You were my faery-story.” “Then why----” “You tell me first.” So he told her: told her how she had pained him in England by her silence; told her what her words “Come to America” had implied; described to her the expectations with which he had set sail; the disappointment when on landing he had found that she was absent; and then the growing heartache that had come to him while she trifled with him. He spared her nothing. “And you act as if my loving bored you,” he said; “and yet, if I take you at your word, you’re petulant May I speak about money now? I know how you hate me to talk of it---- And you won’t misunderstand?” She gave her silent consent. “I can’t afford to live in New York any longer. Last night there was a letter waiting for me. It told me that my only certain source of income was lost. It told me a whole lot besides; they’re lonely and promise to postpone Christmas if I’ll cable them that I’m coming.” “Have you cabled?” He shook his head. “You must. Your poor little mother,” she murmured. “You’d love my mother,” he said eagerly, “and my father, too. The moment he clapped eyes on you he’d want to paint you.”