All in a moment, as it were, while she had stood in the warm clasp of Norman de Vere’s arm, there had come to her a realization of the truth. She loved her guardian, not with the grateful affection of a ward, but with a woman’s devotion. It seemed to her now that she had loved him thus since that first night when he had smiled into her eyes and bid her welcome to his home; but the knowledge might have lain dormant in her mind much longer had not Norman’s sudden tenderness awakened her to the truth. All in one dizzy moment she knew that she loved him and believed that he loved her, that he was going to tell her so, and ask her to be his wife. As swift and sudden as was her hope followed the cruel downfall. She was dazed, breathless, with its terrible suddenness. Crouching on her bed, she wept with passionate _abandon_. “Why did I ever come here?” she moaned, despairingly, “and why was it that I learned to love him, this selfish, cold-hearted man? I can not understand it. He did not try to win me,” her pride rising in arms at the thought that she had given her heart unsought. The love and admiration that had always surrounded Thea had naturally given her a good opinion of her own self. She had heard so often that she was beautiful, that it would have been an affectation to pretend not to know it. But until now she had not cared about it--she had taken it as a matter of course. “Beauty is not all,” she sighed now, with bitter chagrin. “Perhaps he has never even noticed that I am passably pretty. He has seen very beautiful women, of course--proud, cultured, wealthy women--his equals in everything, not dependent little nobodies like me.” She sat up presently, dashing the tears from her violet eyes, her sweet lips curling in fierce self-scorn. “Thea West, you are a little simpleton. How could you have such a fancy for one moment? You know perfectly well how far he ranks above you in everything--even age. He was a man--a married man--when you were a baby. He thinks you are a baby still.” Some more fierce sobs came at that. Oh, how young, how silly, she must appear in his eyes! If she could only add ten years to her age! “He would not dare hug me then and call me his little sister. I should seem too grown up and dignified.” But Thea West was a very sensible girl in spite of her gay spirits. When her first passion of disappointment had worn off, she began to argue the case with herself. She saw that her little tempest of resentment against Norman de Vere was all wrong. He had been very, very kind to her. She owed him a world of gratitude.