She rose, at last, when the contents of the basket were finished, and placed it on the table. Returning she flicked the crumbs from his shoulder and then, with a little sigh, sat down. He looked at her gravely, but with a gravity which tells of emotion restrained. "Thank you again," he said. "Thank you for everything, but--why?" She gave a little start. Was not this the question that her inner self had been dinning in her ears for half an hour? She was humbling herself, sacrificing herself even, in the eyes of such as Landon, lowering herself to serve this man. Why? And as she debated she avoided his gaze lest he should read indecision in her glance. And yet the answer should have been glib on her lips; she had, indeed, already given it to Landon. Duty to a servant suffering in her service. But was that all? "Did you expect me to choose the company of your cousin?" she asked slowly. "The very sight of him revolts me. I cannot stand it!" "You spared me a little of that distaste, at our first meeting," he said, and there was the glint of a queer smile beneath his moustache. "Have I lived that down?" "I know now that you are a gentleman," she said simply. "I realize, too, that Landon is--is monstrous, wickedness incarnate, beyond the reach of human feeling, completely vile. I think," she hesitated, "I think he must have concentrated within himself every evil influence that has fallen upon his family, to leave you--" again she faltered, as if she struggled with a compelling power, not as if a word or phrase escaped her--"to leave you--_stainless_," she sighed with an inflection that seemed to tell of something reluctant in the effort. For a moment he was silent. Then the color flamed to his face; the light of incredulity woke in his eyes. "Then I start now with every handicap cleared away?" he asked quickly. "You see me--as other men?" She turned and looked at him. She smiled a little wearily. "No," she said quietly. "Not as other men." He drew a deep breath. "Claire," he said very quietly, "a month ago I came first into your life. Fate brought me to you, to earn, and then to resent, your unexplained hatred. When I understood it, I swore to myself that I would make you--just. That, then, is a task accomplished." Was this sudden intimate use of her Christian name unconscious or was it premeditated? She made no comment; she only bowed her assent. "That was no personal decision," went on Aylmer. "I did it as a duty--to all who bore my name. The personal factor came afterwards, but so soon afterwards that I can scarcely tell you when the one merged in the other. I loved you; did you understand that?" And now it was her turn to flush and wince. But was it wincing? The pulse which throbbed through her--was it truly resentment? A sense of sudden bewilderment came over her--a bewilderment which sought refuge, at first, in silence.