"But what is the right thing to do now?" he resumed, after a time. "Parole? Hostage? I don't need to tell you I'm the prisoner now. My future, my character, are absolutely in your hands. The fact that I have insulted a woman can be proved. It is with you, what revenge you will take. As a lawyer, I point out to you that the courts are open. You easily can obtain redress there against Warville Dunwody. And your relatives or friends will of course hold me accountable." "Then you fear me?" "No. What comes, comes. I am afraid of no one in the world but my own self. I fear only the dread of facing life--of looking about me here, in my own home, and not seeing, not hearing you. "But you haven't told me what you wish," he added; raising his eyes at last; "nor what you intend to do. Tell me, when will your lawyers call on me?" "Never at all," she answered at last. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "To set me quit so easily? Oh, no." "Never fear. You shall pay me ransom, and heavily." "Ransom? Parole? Hostages? How do you mean?" "What ransom you pay me must be out of yourself, out of your own character. I shall exact it a hundredfold, in shame, in regret, of you. Do you hold any of that ready to pay your debtor?" He shook his head. "No, I'll never regret. But you don't know me, do you? My fortune is adequate." "So is mine," she rejoined. "I could perhaps buy some of your property, if it were for sale. But I want more than money of you." "Who are you?" demanded he suddenly, reverting to the old puzzle regarding her. A sadness came upon her averted face. "Only a bit of flotsam on the human wave. How small we all are, any of us! And there's so much to be done!" Half stumbling, he shifted his position, leaning his weight against the tall pillar of the gallery. He could see her plainly. In the light from the hall half her features were now thrown into Rembrandt lighting. The roll of dark hair framed her face, highbred, aristocratic, yet wholly human and sweet. Gravity sat on all her features; a woman for thought, said they. A woman for dreams; so declared the fineness of brow and temple and cheek and chin, the hand--which, lifted now for an instant, lingered at her throat. But a woman for love! so said every throb of the pulse of the man regarding her. And now, most of all, pity of her just because she was woman was the thought first in his soul. Already he was beginning to pay, and as she had said! "You don't answer me," said he, at length, gently. "I can imagine your ambitions; but I don't learn enough of _you_." "No," said she, with a deep breath. "As you said, we part, each with secrets untold. To you, I am of no consequence. Very well. I was born, no matter where, but free and equal to yourself, I fancy. I came here in the pursuit of life and liberty, and of the days of my remaining unhappiness. I suppose this must be your answer."