Drake glanced toward the open window apprehensively. Nell--any one--might come out any moment, and----

"Shall we walk to the end of the terrace?" he said. "You will catch cold----"

As he spoke he looked down at her. There was only a man's inquiry, and consideration for a woman's bare shoulders, in the look; but to Nell, whose eyes were fixed upon him with an agonized intentness, it seemed that the look was eloquent of tenderness and pa.s.sion.

"Yes, yes," a.s.sented Lady Luce quickly. "Some one may come, and--and--we have so much to say, haven't we, Drake?"

He drew her arm within his mechanically, as he would have drawn it if he had been leading her to a dance, or in to dinner, and they moved beyond Nell's hearing.

Drake bit his lip, and glanced sideways toward the house. What could she have to say to him? and what did this sudden tenderness, this humility, of hers mean?

Suddenly it occurred to him that she had seen his uncle, and heard of the old man's offer. Ten thousand a year was not a large income for one in Lady Lucille Turfleigh's position; but--well, she might have been tempted by it. His face hardened with an expression of cold cynicism which Nell had never seen.

"What have we to say, Luce?" he asked. "I thought you and I had exhausted all topics of absorbing interest when we parted the other day."

She winced, and looked up at him reproachfully.

"Oh, how cruel of you, Drake!" she murmured, "As if I hadn't suffered enough!"

"Suffered!"

He smiled down at her, with something as nearly approaching a sneer as Drake Selbie could bring himself to bestow upon a woman.

"Yes. Drake, did you think I was quite heartless? that--I--I--did what I did without suffering? Ah, no, you couldn't think that; you know me too well."

Her audacity brought a smile to his lips, and he found it difficult to restrain a laugh of amus.e.m.e.nt. It was because he had learned to know her so well that he himself had not suffered a pang at their broken engagement--at least, no pang since he had learned to know and love Nell.

Where was she? How could he get away from this woman, whose face was upturned to him with pa.s.sionate pleading on it?

"Have you seen my uncle lately?" he asked grimly, but with a kind of suddenness.

"No," she replied, and the lie came "like truth"--so like truth that Drake felt ashamed of his suspicion of her motive.

She had not, then, heard of his uncle's offer? Then--then why was she moved at sight of him? Why were her eyes moist with unshed tears, the pressure of her hand on his arm tremulous and beseeching?

"No," she said; "I--I have been scarcely anywhere. I have--not been well. I came down here to the Chesneys' to bury myself--just to bury myself. I have been so wretched, so miserable, Drake."

"I'm sorry," he said gravely. "But why?"

She looked up at him reproachfully.

"Don't you--know? Ah, Drake, can't you guess? Don't--don't look at me like that and smile. It is not like you to be so--so hard."

"We men are hard or soft as you women make us, Luce," he said quietly.

"Remember that I have been through the mill. I was not hard or cruel--once."

It was an unwise thing to say. Never, if you have done with a woman, or she has done with you, talk sentiment, says Rousseau. It was unwise, for it let Luce in.

"I know! Yes, it was all my fault. Drake, do you think I don't know that? Do you think that I don't tell myself so every hour of the day, every hour at night, when I lay awake thinking of--of the past?"

"The past is buried, Luce," he said, with a short laugh. "Don't let us dig it up again. After all, you acted wisely----"

"No; I acted like a fool!" she broke in; and she meant it. "If I had only listened to the cry of my own heart--if I had only refused to obey father, and--and stuck to you! But, Drake, though you think me heartless, and--and sneer----"

"I didn't mean to sneer, Luce," he said. "Forgive me if I did so unintentionally. I quite understood your difficulty, and, as I told you the day we parted, I--well, I made allowances for you. You did what most women of our set would have done."

"Would they? But perhaps they really are heartless, while I----Drake, you can't tell what I have suffered; how--how terribly I have missed you! I--yes, I will tell you the truth. Do you know, Drake, that I had made a vow that whenever we met, whether it was soon, or not for years, I would tell you all. Yes--though, like a man, you should despise me for it!"

"I'm not likely to despise you for it, Luce," he said. As he spoke, Lady Chesney came out onto the terrace. She looked up and down, saw the two figures standing together, and, with a smile, returned to the house.

"No; you are too generous for that, Drake; even if I--I confess that I have not spent one happy--oh, the word is a mockery!--that I have been wretched since the hour I--I left you."

His face grew grave, almost stern.

"I'm sorry," he said simply. "Candidly, I didn't think----"

"No, I know! You thought that I only cared for you because----You told me that I was heartless and mercenary, you remember, Drake. But, ah; it wasn't true! Yes, I've been brought up at a bad school. I've been taught that it's a sacred duty for every girl, as poor as I am, to make a good match; and I thought--see how frank I am!--that I could part from you, oh, not easily, but without breaking my heart. But I--I was mistaken! I miss you so dreadfully! There is not another man in the world I can care for, or even dream of caring for."

"Hush!" he said sternly.

There was always something impressive about Drake, a touch of the manliness which is somewhat rare nowadays, the manliness which women are so quick to acknowledge and bow to; and Lady Luce shrank a little; but her hand tightened on his arm, and her brown, velvety eyes dimmed with genuine tears--for she was more than anxious, and more than half in love with him--looked up at him penitently, imploringly.

"Drake--you believe me?" she whispered. "Don't--don't punish me too badly! See, I am at your feet--a woman--Drake"--her voice sank to a whisper, became almost inaudible, and her head drooped forward until it nearly rested on his breast. "Drake--forgive--me and----"

Her voice broke suddenly.

He was moved to something like pity. Is there any man alive who can resist the prayer, the touch of a beautiful woman, especially if she is the woman he has once loved? If such a man there be, his name is not Drake Selbie.

"Hush!" he said again, but in a gentler voice. "G.o.d knows, I loved you, Luce----"

She uttered a faint cry. It was no louder than the sough of the night breeze.

"Drake--Drake! ah, Drake!" she breathed, her face lifted to his, her other hand touching his breast. "Say it again! It's the sweetest music I've heard since--since----Say it again, Drake. I won't ask for any more----"

"Don't!" he said hoa.r.s.ely. The caress of her hand made him miserable; it had no power to thrill him now. "I want to tell you, Luce----"

"No--no," she said quickly, eagerly. "Don't scold me to-night. I am so happy now. It is as if I had come back to life. Say it once more, Drake.

Just 'I forgive you'!"

"I forgive you; but, listen, Luce," he added quickly.

She slid her white arm round his neck, and drew his head down and kissed him. The next moment, before he could say a word, she drew away from him quickly.

"Go in--I will come presently," she said. "There is some one--there is a door."

Confused, almost hating her for the kiss she had stolen--with Nell flashing on his mind--he turned and entered the house by the door to which she had pointed.

She stood for a moment, then she went toward Lady Chesney. Her face was pale, but there was a smile on her lips, a glow of triumph in her brown eyes, as she paused in the light from the open window.