Montague stood watching her, helpless with distress. She caught hold of the arm of the chair, convulsively, and he put his hand upon hers.

"Mrs. Winnie--" he began.

But she jerked her hand away and hid it. "No, no!" she cried, in terror. "Don't touch me!"

And suddenly she looked up at him, stretching out her arms. "Don't you understand that I love you?" she exclaimed. "You despise me for it, I know--but I can't help it. I will tell you, even so! It's the only satisfaction I can have. I have always loved you! And I thought--I thought it was only that you didn't understand. I was ready to brave all the world--I didn't care who knew it, or what anybody said. I thought we could be happy--I thought I could be free at last. Oh, you've no idea how unhappy I am--and how lonely--and how I longed to escape! And I believed that you--that you might--"

And then the tears gushed into Mrs. Winnie's eyes again, and her voice became the voice of a little child.

"Don't you think that you might come to love me?" she wailed.

Her voice shook Montague, so that he trembled to the depths of him. But his face only became the more grave.

"You despise me because I told you!" she exclaimed.

"No, no, Mrs. Winnie," he said. "I could not possibly do that--"

"Then--then why--" she whispered.--"Would it be so hard to love me?"

"It would be very easy," he said, "but I dare not let myself."

She looked at him piteously. "You are so cold--so merciless!" she cried.

He answered nothing, and she sat trembling. "Have you ever loved a woman?" she asked.

There was a long pause. He sat in the chair again. "Listen, Mrs.

Winnie"--he began at last.

"Don't call me that!" she exclaimed. "Call me Evelyn--please."

"Very well," he said--"Evelyn. I did not intend to make you unhappy--if I had had any idea, I should never have seen you again. I will tell you--what I have never told anybody before. Then you will understand."

He sat for a few moments, in a sombre reverie.

"Once," he said, "when I was young, I loved a woman--a quadroon girl.

That was in New Orleans; it is a custom we have there. They have a world of their own, and we take care of them, and of the children; and every one knows about it. I was very young, only about eighteen; and she was even younger. But I found out then what women are, and what love means to them. I saw how they could suffer. And then she died in childbirth--the child died, too."

Montague's voice was very low; and Mrs. Winnie sat with her hands clasped, and her eyes riveted upon his face. "I saw her die," he said.

"And that was all. I have never forgotten it. I made up my mind then that I had done wrong; and that never again while I lived would I offer my love to a woman, unless I could devote all my life to her. So you see, I am afraid of love. I do not wish to suffer so much, or to make others suffer. And when anyone speaks to me as you did, it brings it all back to me--it makes me shrink up and wither."

He paused, and the other caught her breath.

"Understand me," she said, her voice trembling. "I would not ask any pledges of you. I would pay whatever price there was to pay--I am not afraid to suffer."

"I do not wish you to suffer," he said. "I do not wish to take advantage of any woman."

"But I have nothing in the world that I value!" she cried. "I would go away--I would give up everything, to be with a man like you. I have no ties--no duties--"

He interrupted her. "You have your husband--" he said.

And she cried out in sudden fury--"My husband!"

"Has no one ever told you about my husband?" she asked, after a pause.

"No one," he said.

"Well, ask them!" she exclaimed. "Meantime, take my word for it--I owe nothing to my husband."

Montague sat staring into the fire. "But consider my own case," he said. "_I_ have duties--my mother and my cousin--"

"Oh, don't say any more!" cried the woman, with a break in her voice.

"Say that you don't love me--that is all there is to say! And you will never respect me again! I have been a fool--I have ruined everything! I have flung away your friendship, that I might have kept!"

"No," he said.

But she rushed on, vehemently--"At least, I have been honest--give me credit for that! That is how all my troubles come--I say what is in my mind, and I pay the price for my blunders. It is not as if I were cold and calculating--so don't despise me altogether."

"I couldn't despise you," said Montague. "I am simply pained, because I have made you unhappy. And I did not mean to."

Mrs. Winnie sat staring ahead of her in a sombre reverie. "Don't think any more about it," she said, bitterly. "I will get over it. I am not worth troubling about. Don't you suppose I know how you feel about this world that I live in? And I'm part of it--I beat my wings, and try to get out, but I can't. I'm in it, and I'll stay in till I die; I might as well give up. I thought that I could steal a little joy--you have no idea how hungry I am for a little joy! You have no idea how lonely I am! And how empty my life is! You talk about your fear of making me unhappy; it's a grim jest--but I'll give you permission, if you can!

I'll ask nothing--no promises, no sacrifices! I'll take all the risks, and pay all the penalties!"

She smiled through her tears, a sardonic smile. He was watching her, and she turned again, and their eyes met; again he saw the blood mount from her throat to her cheeks. At the same time came the old stirring of the wild beasts within him. He knew that the less time he spent in sympathizing with Mrs. Winnie, the better for both of them.

He had started to rise, and words of farewell were on his lips; when suddenly there came a knock upon the door.

Mrs. Winnie sprang to her feet. "Who is that?" she cried.

And the door opened, and Mr. Duval entered.

"Good evening," he said pleasantly, and came toward her.

Mrs. Winnie flushed angrily, and stared at him. "Why do you come here unannounced?" she cried.

"I apologize," he said--"but I found this in my mail--"

And Montague, in the act of rising to greet him, saw that he had the offensive clipping in his hand. Then he saw Duval give a start, and realized that the man had not been aware of his presence in the room.

Duval gazed from Montague to his wife, and noticed for the first time her tears, and her agitation. "I beg pardon," he said. "I am evidently trespa.s.sing."

"You most certainly are," responded Mrs. Winnie.

He made a move to withdraw; but before he could take a step, she had brushed past him and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

And Duval stared after her, and then he stared at Montague, and laughed. "Well! well! well!" he said.

Then, checking his amus.e.m.e.nt, he added, "Good evening, sir."