"You? Yes! I can see it now. All evening there has been some vague thing about you that has puzzled me. Why, it is wonderful--positively wonderful. I--" He stopped suddenly, a look of concern in his eyes. "I hope I didn't say anything just now to hurt you,--I mean, about your father." "You spoke of him as the world speaks, Mr. Van Pycke. And you did say 'poor devil.' That was something. He is--still a helpless invalid. Perhaps you did not know that." "I'm sorry--very sorry." He hesitated for a moment. "Is that why you are Mrs. De Foe's secretary?" "We are quite poor, Mr. Van Pycke. So poor that I am unwilling to take from the slender annuity that keeps us together--my father, my two little sisters and me. There is enough for him to live on to the end of his poor, desolated life. I am strong, and I love him too well to take from that little store. Mine hasn't been such a trying position, after all. Mrs. Scoville is an old friend. I've known her since I was a little girl. She's been very kind and very generous. I don't mind the work. It's much better than marrying some one for his money, I'm sure. Have you ever read of Lily Bart? She had a very much harder time than I, poor thing, in her house of mirth. She did not deserve it, but she served as a warning to me." "I dare say you remember that I told Mrs. Scoville I had come up here to-night to propose to her," he said ruefully. She nodded, and her eyes narrowed. "You are not so brave as I am, Mr. Van Pycke," she said. "I thought you were very brave and very manly as a little boy." "Well, I didn't ask her, after all," he said, resenting her tone. "I don't believe I could have done it, if it had actually come to the test. I couldn't do it now to save my very soul. I'm going to marry for love or not at all. Money be hanged." "Oh, don't say that!" she cried. "You forget how rich you are!" "Rich! I'm a pauper." "On twelve thousand a year? I consider myself quite well off on the fifteen hundred Mrs. Scoville pays me. You are fabulously rich." "You are laughing at me," he exclaimed, shamed. "Who am I to laugh at the wonderful Buzzy Van Pycke, prince of the dandies in--" "Please don't." He clenched his hands and set his jaw, leaning forward to gaze into the bed of coals. She studied his averted face. "You have a strong face," she said at last, voicing her thoughts. "Thanks," he muttered. "You don't know _how_ to work. Is that it, Mr. Van Pycke?" she asked. "Oh, I fancy I could earn a living," he said, without looking up. "And then you could save the twelve thousand intact," she observed. He looked up curiously. "In ten years you would have at least one hundred and twenty-five thousand. You could buy a yacht with that much money. Just think what fun it would be to spend it all in an hour." "It may interest you to know that I _am_ going to work," he said, conscious of a burning sensation in his face. "Are you in earnest?" "Certainly. I'm tired of this sort of thing."