She found and caressed his hand. The faint, elusive perfume of her silken robe, the light touch of her hand, the fine precision of her profile, the pretty red lips and heavy-lidded, smiling eyes combined to quicken his heartbeats. She was here, quite within his reach, a wounded bird, with bruised wings, asking shelter. The revenge he had carried in his heart since the night he read her letter announcing her engagement to marry his father was attainable--he knew it by all the manifold testimonies of his senses, the response of his nature to hers. She was, as Tom Walsh had said, fragile, like glass; and he was a veritable weathercock, the wind’s plaything. His hand closed over hers, she drew nearer and her head lay on his breast, and he stroked her fair, bright hair. “It’s good to be happy. I wish I belonged to you. If things only went right in this world I should, and we should have dear times together.” Her bare arm stole about his neck; the touch of it kindled his blood like flame. “You are tired of it?” he asked in a low voice. “Yes,” she answered softly. “You’ve been cheated; you paid a big price for the happiness you didn’t get.” “He doesn’t care the least bit. I don’t interest him. You might think he would talk to me when he was in trouble, but he keeps as far away as he can. But--I’m really not so bad--am I, Wayne? I’m not ugly, or stupid, or so very foolish?” He pressed her hand for answer. “Don’t you think I’m as nice as Jean? She’s big and strong and handsome--and she’s interesting--I can see how she appeals to you; but there’s so much she doesn’t know. Don’t you believe I know more than she does?” His hand relaxed; she was aware that he drew away from her. He rose, almost flinging her away. “For God’s sake, Addie, don’t talk to me of her; don’t speak of her.” “Oh!” It was the exclamation of a rebuked child. “Of course I didn’t understand,” she pouted. “You seemed lonely and I was trying to be good to you. Of course, then, she is wiser than I am. If I’d known how it stood with you I shouldn’t have spoken of her at all.” “She knows what you don’t know; she knows me.” “Then she must be very wise!” “She knows ten thousand things you never dreamed of; she has watched them bring dead men out of the pit; she has heard grimy children crying for their dead fathers. She knows the real things; but life to you is only a candy box with pretty pictures on the cover.” “This may be very interesting,” she remarked coldly, “but I’m afraid you’re going to bore me. I don’t think I care to hear about dead men and the pit and children crying. Good night.” He was safe for the moment. Her reference to Jean had steadied him, but he was not sure of himself. He felt that Jean was there by the table where he had pressed her hand to his face; the viol-like chords of her voice were in his ears; he saw the light of her countenance and felt the benediction of her spirit.