By a mischance unavoidable in a mind filled as was his he began to tell of his revenge--of the exhibition of power he purposed to give, sudden and terrible. He talked of his enemies as a cat might of a mouse it was teasing in the impassable circle of its paws. She felt that they deserved the thunderbolt he said he was about to hurl into them, but she could not help feeling pity for them. If what he said of his resources and power were true, how feeble, how helpless they were--pygmies fatuously disporting themselves in the palm of a giant's hand, unconscious of where they were, of the cruel eyes laughing at them, of the iron muscles that would presently contract that hand and--she shuddered; his voice came to her in a confused murmur. "If he does not stop I shall loathe him AGAIN!" she said to herself. Then to him: "Perhaps you'd like to see Langdon--he's in the drawing-room with Gladys." "I sent for him two hours ago. Yes, tell him to come up at once." As she took the cup he detained her hand. She beat down the impulse to snatch it away, let it lie passive. He pressed his lips upon it. "I haven't thanked you for coming back," he said in a low voice, holding to her hand nervously. "But you know it wasn't because I'm not grateful, don't you? I can hardly believe yet that it isn't a dream. I'd have said there wasn't a human being on earth who'd have done it--except your mother. No, not even you, only your mother." At this tribute to her mother, unexpected, sincere, tears dimmed Pauline's eyes and a sob choked up into her throat. "It was your mother in you that made you come," he went on. "But you came--and I'll not forget it. You said you had come to stay--is that so, Pauline?" She bent her head in assent. "When I'm well and on top again--but there's nothing in words. All I'll say is, you're giving me a chance, and I'll make the best of it. I've learned my lesson." He slowly released her hand. She stood there a moment, without speaking, without any definite thought. Then she left to send Langdon. "Yes," Dumont reflected, "it was her duty. It's a woman's duty to be forgiving and gentle and loving and pure--they're made differently from men. It was unnatural, her ever going away at all. But she's a good woman, and she shall get what she deserves hereafter. When I settle this bill for my foolishness I'll not start another." Duty--that word summed up his whole conception of the right attitude of a good woman toward a man. A woman who acted from love might change her mind; but duty was safe, was always there when a man came back from wanderings which were mere amiable, natural weaknesses in the male. Love might adorn a honeymoon or an escapade; duty was the proper adornment of a home. "I've just been viewing the wreck with Culver," he said, as Langdon entered, dressed in the extreme of the latest London fashion. "Much damage?"