Her mind was chaotic, for with his eager words of love rang others, bewildering her. Side by side with his passionate outpouring of his love for her, his longing to have her for his own, to live for her and work for her, were other words--words of ambition and great aspirations, words of intending travel into far-away countries, of hardships and discomforts to be borne for the sake of the book that was to be written--the book that was to bring fame and satisfaction to the writer of it. And these words rang with a deep note of earnestness and strength, and overpowered those eager, present tones that were pleading to her so wildly. "I called you Kathleen Mavourneen last night, you remember, and you smiled and blushed!" he protested, roughly. "Why did you do it? Kathleen, you _do_ love me, you do! Why don't you speak to me? I tell you, I have seen it in your eyes. Why do you deny it now?" She shook her head, and her heart cried in agony, "How long? How long?" "Won't you try, then?" with a humbleness that was not natural to him. "Oh, Kitty, little Kitty, I cannot live without you!" He held out his arms to her despairingly. "I have a singing lesson to give at one o'clock," she said. His arms fell to his sides. The sun streamed in on to the pretty, pale, downbent face of the girl, and on to the white, haggard face of the man who stood opposite. There were no shadows in the little room--it was all glare and shabbiness. "I will go," he said, and then his eyes caught fire; "but you are a flirt! Do you hear, a paltry, heartless flirt! You have led me on--played with me. You have made your eyes soft, your lips sweet, to amuse yourself at my expense! How do you do it?" with a little cynical laugh. "It's really clever--of its kind--you know----" He moved towards the door. "I beg your pardon," he said icily. "I should not have spoken so to a woman. Good-bye." "You will begin your travels now?" she said. He laughed. "Why keep up the pretence?" he said; "it's rather late now to pretend any interest in my life." She was silent. At the door he paused. He was a proud man, and he had an iron will. But his love made him helpless and weak as a little child. "Kathleen," he breathed, "you are sure?" A moment she stood still and rigid as a statue. "Little one, I love you so----" His voice was soft and caressing; but her love made her heroic. She raised her head. "I am sure," she said steadily. * * * * * The girl sat in a corner of the warm, gorgeous drawing-room, and wished vaguely that people would not nod and stare at her so energetically. She was used to it now, and tired of it. She had never liked it, but fame brings notoriety in its train, and notoriety brings nods and whispers and stares. She was dressed beautifully. She had always liked pretty things, and now she could have as many as she wanted. The man stood over in a doorway and watched her with cynical eyes.