"You know what I am," she repeated. "You and dad did everything to make me like yourselves. You took me out of the gutter——" "Steve!" "You took me out of the gutter!" she repeated excitedly. "You cleaned the filth from me, gave me shelter, love;—you educated me, made me possible, strove to eradicate the unworthy instincts and inclinations which I might have inherited. My aunt told me. I know what dad did for me! Why shouldn’t I adore the memory of your father? Why shouldn’t I love his son? I do. I always have. I didn’t dream that you ever could offer me a greater love. But when I understood that it was true—when I realized that it was really love, then I stepped into your arms because you held them out to me—because you were your father’s son whom I had loved passionately all my life in one way, and was willing to learn to love in any way you asked of me—Jim!—my brother—my lover——" She flung herself into his arms, choking, clinging to him, struggling to control her voice: "I am nothing—I am nothing," she sobbed passionately. "Why should not all my gratitude and loyalty be for your father’s son? What is so terrible to me is that I can’t give myself! That I can’t throw myself at your feet for life. To marry you would be too heavenly wonderful! Or, to snap my fingers in the world’s face for your sake—dearest—that would be so little to do for you—so easy. "But I can’t. Your father—dad—would know it. And then the world would blame him for ever harbouring a gutter-waif——" "Steve, dearest——" "Oh, Jim," she stammered, "I haven’t even told you how those inherited traits have raised the deuce with me. I’ve got in me all the low instincts, all the indolence, the selfish laziness, the haphazard, irresponsible, devil-may-care traits of the man who was my own father!" "Steve——!" "Let me tell you! I’ve got to tell you. I can’t keep it any longer. It was something in Oswald that appealed to that gypsy side of me—awoke it, I think. The first time I ever saw him, as a boy, and under disagreeable circumstances, I felt an odd inclination for him. He was _like_ me, and I sensed it! I told you that once. It’s true. Something in him appealed to the vagabond recklessness and irresponsibility latent in me—the tendency to wander, the indolent desire to drift and explore pleasant places.... After you went abroad I met him. I wrote you about it. I liked him. He fascinated me. There was something in common—something common in common between us.... I went to his studio, at first with Helen, and also when others were there. Then I went alone. I didn’t care, knowing there was really no harm in going, and also being at the age when defiance of convention is more or less attractive to every girl. "He was fascinating. He was plainly in love with me. But that means nothing to a girl except the subtle excitement and flattery of the fact. But he was what I wanted—a fellow vagabond!