seeking to win her by the same bold methods he had used with other women, fawning--yes, fawning--for a look or a glance which he might read to his advantage? She laughed aloud. Ah! he had found none. No sign, not the faintest quiver of an eyelid had she ever given him; nor even dignified him by her righteous anger until that night in the garden at Dorset House, when by a trick he had taken her unawares, to the end that her lofty disdain had given way to an active, breathing hatred. Then, when she had learned that the man was no impostor, but her own kinsman, of whose martyrdom she had been unwittingly the cause, pity had taken the place of scorn, contrition the place of vengefulness, compassion the place of hate. The damp night wind touched her cheek and brow, the luster died out of her eyes, her lips parted, and the deep intaking of breath and trembling sigh bespoke the passing of the emotion--a surrender. Was he not moving strictly within the letter of his rights? Could she expect him to come flying on wings of ardency at the mere crooking of her finger? Search her heart as she might, she could find no anger there. Of that she was sure, no matter how great the rebellion of her spirit against his cool impenetrability. She knew better than any words could tell that had he been precipitate in response to her news and her petitions, she must have been as stone to his advances. But he wore his armor so well that her woman’s weapons needed all their burnishing. She was conscious even of a sense of guilt. The noble sentiments which had sent her forth upon this wild chase across half the world were suborned to the feminine appetite for tribute withheld. The woman in her saw only her natural enemy, man, rebellious and declaring war, who must at all hazards be brought into subjection. It might be possible. And yet she doubted. She could not understand. One moment he was masterful in a way which thrilled her. In another the eyes would reveal that which no tangling or knitting of the brows or thinning of the lips could belie. Had she rightly read him? She could not forget that she had surprised him in his subterfuges, that, in spite of herself and him, she could not fear him. What if--? She dared not think. Was the love which this man’s eyes had spoken to her so great as this? Could it be that her fate was ever cruelly to misjudge him? Was there something finer in his life than she had ever known in another’s--something that she could not learn of or understand?