She turned upon him in a flash and he saw that her bosom was heaving. “Do you think I would take his charity?” she said. “Or anyone else’s? I’d rather—far rather—starve—as I have before!” “Good God!” said Montague. He met the fierce fire of her eyes with a swift kindling of admiration in his own. Somehow in that moment she was magnificent. She was like a statue of Victory in the midst of defeat. Then he saw the fire die down, and marked it with regret. “Good night,” she said abruptly. “I am going in.” He thrust out his hand to her with a quickness of impulse he did not stop to question. “Please wait a minute!” he said. “Surely you are not afraid of my offering you charity?” He smiled as he said it—the smile of confident friendship. There were moments when Montague Rotherby, with the true gambler’s spirit, staked all upon one cast. And this was one of them. But—possessing also a considerable knowledge of human nature—he had small fear for the result. He knew before he put down his stake that he was dealing with a woman of too generous a temperament to make him suffer complete failure. Also, he was too old and too cynical a player to care greatly whether he won or lost. He was beginning to admit that she attracted him. But after all, what of it? It was only boredom that lent romance to this moonlight scene. In three days—in less—he could banish it from his mind. There were other scenes awaiting his careless coming, other players also . . . higher stakes. . . . The thought was still running in his mind even as he felt the quick grip of her slender hand in his. He had not expected complete victory. It took him by surprise. “You are far too good,” she said, and he heard the quiver of emotion that she no longer sought to suppress in her voice, “too understanding, to offer me that.” He squeezed her hand in answer. “I’m offering you friendship,” he said. “Thank you,” she said gently. He smiled into her eyes. “It may be of an unorthodox kind, but that we can’t help—under the circumstances. It’s genuine anyway.” “I am sure of that,” she said. He wondered what made her sure, and was conscious of a moment’s discomfiture, but swiftly fortified himself with the reflection that she was no girl, and if she were still lacking in experience of the ways of the world, that was her affair, not his. On second thoughts he did not believe her to be lacking in this respect. She had shown too much caution in her treatment of his earlier advances. He released her hand, but he stood very close to her in the shadow of the cypress-tree. “And now—as a friend,” he said, “will you tell me what you think of doing?” She made no movement away from him. Possibly she had not the strength to turn away from the only human being in the world who had offered to stand by her in her hour of need. She answered him with a simplicity that must have shown him clearly how completely she had banished all doubt.