Now she sat and looked, seeking still to lure him by the pathetic cast of her face and soul, while Cowperwood, scornful of her, and almost openly contemptuous of her lover, and his possible opposition, merely stood smiling before them.

It came over her very swiftly now just what it was she was losing--a grim, wonderful man.

Beside him Gurney, the pale poet, was rather thin--a mere breath of romance.

She wanted to say something, to make a plea; but it was so plain Cowperwood would have none of it, and, besides, here was Gurney.

Her throat clogged, her eyes filled, even here, and a mystical bog-fire state of emotion succeeded the primary one of opposition.