"Mr. Hart will come downstairs for breakfast," Rachel answered shortly; then, sinking on the rug, she began fondling the kittens. She lifted them out of the basket one at a time, and holding them at a distance, looked at their faces, which, three-cornered and mottled light and dark, suggested pansies; at their paws, soft as velvet and harmless as yet; at their short frisky tails and little red mouths which they opened wide as they mewed straight at her. During this pretty play the mother cat sat by the fender and washed her face. But presently, at an especially distressed mew, she crossed the room and laid a remonstrative paw on Rachel's arm. But the girl held the kitten still higher so that the cat was obliged to rear herself on her hind feet in order to reach it. At that instant Simon Hart entered the room. "Isn't that rather cruel of you?" he asked, stooping to pat the cat that arched its back under his hand. "Let her reach it then," Rachel answered. After several trials, the mother cat succeeded in taking the kitten by the nape of its limp neck, and then hopped nimbly with it into the basket. Rachel looked at her gravely as she began rather roughly to lick the kittens with her little scarlet tongue, covered with tiny cones. Simon extended his hand, but Rachel made no move to rise. Instead, turning her head which she rested on her palm, she looked at him and across her face flitted a variety of emotions. He would have assisted her to her feet, but she would have none of him. Then another glance and her mood changed completely. Self-contained and enigmatic as he was on ordinary occasions, he showed now an embarrassment that struck to her heart. She put up her hands, and with a sudden violence of emotion, he lifted her in his arms. A moment later, she had forced him to release her, and, pale and thoughtful, she left the room. "We'll have breakfast in a moment," she said, reappearing. "I gave Theresa your flask; she is sending out," she added in a lower voice. Already Simon had assumed his usual equivocal and aloof manner. At these words, he lowered his eyes. "That was kind of you," he said, "I required merely a drop and I found what I needed. My cold," he continued, "is no worse; on the contrary, I shall go to the shop to-day." Since the night of the opera, three weeks before, Simon had been confined to the house by his dread enemy, the influenza. During this illness he had consumed a great quantity of liquor. If he went without it for any number of hours, he showed the effect. That morning Rachel had been moved by his pale and wretched look. During the meal he read to her part of a paper he expected to deliver before the Jewellers' Association. But she crumbled her bread, her thoughts wandering. As he was preparing to leave the house, she lingered about in his vicinity.