"Oh, Clive! You are different! You are _more_ than that. You know you are. How can I take all this? Will you tell me? How can I live here--this way--"

"Your sisters will be here. You saw their room just now--"

"But what can I _tell_ them? How can I explain? They know we cannot afford such luxury as this?"

"Tell them the rent is the same."

"They won't believe it. They couldn't. They don't understand even now how it is with you and me--that you are so dear and generous and kind just because you are my friend--and no more than my friend.... Not that they really believe--anything--unpleasant--of _me_--but--but--"

"What do you care--as long as it isn't so?" he said, coolly.

"I don't care. Except that it weakens my authority over them....

Catharine is very impulsive, and she dearly loves a good time--and she is becoming sullen with me when I try to advise her or curb her....

And it's so with Doris, too.... I'd like to keep my influence.... But if they ever really began to believe that between you and me there was--more--than friendship, I--I don't know what they might feel free to think--or do--"

"They're older than you."

"Yes. But I seem to have the authority,--or I did have."

They looked into the leaping flames; he threw open his fur coat and seated himself on the padded arm of her chair.

"All I know is," he said, "that it gives me the deepest and most enduring happiness to do things for you. When the architect planned this house I had him design a place for you. Ultimately all the row of old houses are to be torn down and replaced by modern apartments with moderate rentals. So you will have to move anyway sooner or later. Why not come here _now_?"

Half unconsciously she had rested her cheek against the fur lining of his coat where it fell against his arm. He looked down at her, touched her hair--a thing he had never thought of doing before.

"Why not come here, Athalie?" he said caressingly.

"I don't know. It would be heavenly. Do you want me to, Clive?"

"Yes. And I want you to begin to put away part of your salary, too.

You might as well begin, now. You will be free from the burden of rent, free from--various burdens--"

"I--can't--let you--"

"I want to!"

"Why?"

"Because it gives me pleasure--"

"No; because you desire to give _me_ pleasure! _That_ is the reason!"

she exclaimed with partly restrained pa.s.sion--"because you are _you_--and there is n.o.body like you in all the world--in all the world, Clive!--"

To her emotion his own flashed a quick, warm response. He looked down at her, deeply touched, his pride gratified, his boyish vanity satisfied. Always had the simplicity and candour of her quick and ardent grat.i.tude corroborated and satisfied whatever was in him of youthful self-esteem. Everything about her seemed to minister to it--her attention in public places was undisguisedly for him alone; her beauty, her superb youth and health, the admiring envy of other people--all these flattered him.

Why should he not find pleasure in giving to such a girl as this?--giving without scruple--unscrupulous too, perhaps, concerning the effect his generosity might have on a cynical world which looked on out of wearied and incredulous eyes; unscrupulous, perhaps, concerning the effect his too lavish kindness might have on a young girl unaccustomed to men and the ways of men.

But there was no harm in him; he was very much self-a.s.sured of that.

He had been too carefully brought up--far too carefully reared. And had people ventured to question him, and had they escaped alive his righteous violence, they would have learned that there really was not the remotest chance that his mother was in danger of becoming what she most dreaded in all the world.

The fire burned lower; they sat watching it together, her flushed cheek against the fur of his coat, his arm extended along the back of the chair behind her.

"Well," he said, "this has been another happy evening."

She stirred in a.s.sent, and he felt the lightest possible pressure against him.

"Are you contented, Athalie?"

"Yes."

After a moment he glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock. So he rose, placed the screen over the fireplace, and then came back to where she now stood, looking very intently at the opposite wall. And he turned to see what interested her. But there seemed to be nothing in particular just there.

"What are you staring at, little ghost-seer?" he asked, pa.s.sing his hand under her arm; and stepped back, surprised, as she freed herself with a quick, nervous movement, looked at him, then averted her head.

"What is the matter, Athalie?" he inquired.

"Nothing.... Don't touch me, Clive."

"No, of course not.... But what in the world--"

"Nothing.... Don't ask me." Presently he saw her very slowly move her head and look back at the empty corner of the room; and remain so, motionless for a moment. Then she turned with a sigh, came quietly to him; and he drew her hand through his arm.

"Of what were you thinking, Athalie?"

"Of nothing."

"Did you think you saw something over there?"

She was silent.

"What were you looking at?" he insisted.

"Nothing.... I don't care to talk just now--"

"Tell me, Athalie!"

"No.... No, I don't want to, Clive--"

"I wish to know!"

"I can't--there is nothing to tell you--" she laid one hand on his coat, almost pleadingly, and looked up at him out of eyes so dark that only the starry light in them betrayed that they were blue and not velvet black.

"That same thing has happened before," he said, looking at her, deeply perplexed. "Several times since I have known you the same expression has come into your face--as though you were looking at something which--"

"Please don't, Clive!--"