"Quiet, Jane," he said softly as a man might speak to a plunging horse. "Steady!" Jane got to her feet. She was very white. She put up her hand and pressed the back of it against her forehead and from under this hand she looked at the two men with eyes of such astonished pain and beauty as they could never forget. "Yes," she said presently; "that's something I _could_ do." At once Jasper hastened to retrieve his error. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I've been horribly clumsy. Do forgive me. Do let me explain. I didn't mean that you were a wild--" She let the hand fall and held it up to stop his speech. "I'm not taking offense, Mr. Morena," she said. "You say you arrange plays and that you have been seeking for some one to play that girl, that lioness-girl who wasn't rightly tamed, though the man had done his worst to break her?" Jasper nodded with a puzzled, anxious air. For all his skill and subtlety, he could not interpret her tone. "And you think I'm beautiful?" "My dear child, I know you are," said he. "You try to disguise it. And I know that in many other ways you disguise yourself. I think you make a great mistake. Your work is hard and rough--" She smiled. "I'm not complaining of my work," she said. "It's rough and so am I. Oh, yes, I'm real, true rough. I was born to roughness and raised to it. I'm not anything I don't seem, Mr. Morena. I've had rough travel all my days, only--only--" She sat down again, twisting her hands painfully in her apron and bending her face down from the sight of the two men. The line of her long, bent neck was a beautiful thing to see. She spoke low and rapidly, holding down her emotion, though she could not control all the exquisite modulations of her voice. "There's only one part of my travel that I want to forget and that's the one smooth bit. And it's hateful to me and you've been reminding me of it. I must tell you now that I'd rather be burnt by a white-hot iron"--here she gave him a wide and horrified look like a child who speaks of some dreadful remembered punishment--"than do that thing you've asked of me. I hate everything you've been telling me about. I don't want to be beautiful. I don't want any one to be telling me such things. I don't want to be any different from what I am now. This is my real self. It is. I hate beauty. I hate it. I'm not good enough to love it. Beauty and learning and--and music--" Her head had been bending lower and lower, her voice rocking under its weight of restrained anguish. On the word "music" she dropped her head to her knees and was silent. "I can't talk no more," she said, after a moment, and she stood up and ran out of the room. "I'll be d----d!" swore Yarnall. But Jasper stood, his face pale, smiting one hand into the other. "I feel that I, at least, deserve to be," he said. CHAPTER IV FLIGHT