She threw herself into an armchair by the fire, with a little sigh. She had been unusually quiet during the drive home. “And what’s making you miserable?” asked Vandeleur, in a tone of concern. “I wish you had n’t done that, Van,” she said, with a wistful puckering of her forehead. “Ah, there! now you’re vexed with me. There never was an animal like me for treading on my dearest friends. I’m like the elephant you may have heard of, that squashed the mother of a brood of chickens by mistake, and, taking it to heart, just like me, gathered the little ones under his wing, and, sitting down upon them, said: ‘Ah, be aisy now, I’ll be a mother to you’; he did n’t hurt the chickens’ feelings exactly--but it was mistaken kindness. Was it your feelings I trampled on?” “Ah, no, Van,” said Yvonne, smiling. “But don’t you see, it was doing a thing I can never pay you back for.” “Faith, the sight of your sweet face is payment enough.” “But you can have that for nothing--such as it is.” “It’s the sweetest face that ever was made,” said the Irishman, flinging a freshly-lighted cigarette into the grate behind him. “I’d cut off my head any day to get a sight of it But are you wanting to pay me more than that? By my soul, there’s just an easy way out of your difficulty, Yvonne!” He looked down at her, his face very red, and questioning in his eyes. She caught his glance and sat upright, stretching out her hand appealingly. Men had looked at her like that before,--craving for something she had not in her to give. She had always, on such occasions, felt what a shallow, poverty-stricken little soul she was. What was in her that could bring the trouble into men’s eyes? Here was Van, the kind friend and good comrade, going the way of the others. She was frightened and distressed. “Oh, Van, don’t!” she cried. “Not that. I can’t bear it!” She covered her face with her hands, as he came quickly forward and leaned over her chair. “Just a tiny bit of love, Yvonne. So small that you would n’t miss it. I could do with it all, but I know I can’t get that. I only ask for a sample. Come, Yvonne.” But Yvonne shook her head. “Don’t, Van,” she repeated, piteously; “you’re hurting me.” Her tone was so pathetic that the big man drew himself up, thumped his chest, and seized his hat. “I’m a great big brute to come and take advantage of you like this. Of course you couldn’t care about a great fat bounder like me. And you’re half dropping with weariness. It’s a villain I am. I’ll leave you to your sleep, poor little woman. Good night.” He held out his hand, and she allowed hers to remain in it for a moment. “I have n’t been ungrateful to you, have I?” she asked. “I did n’t mean to be. But I thought you were different.” “How, different?” “That you would never make love to me. Don’t, Van, please. It would spoil it all.”