If you will remain with me--for a while----" "Yes, dear." He drew a chair to the fire; she sank into it; he seated himself beside her and she clung to his hand with both of hers.
His eyes fell upon her wrist where the marks of her teeth were imprinted; he felt her body trembling, saw the tragedy in her eyes, rose, lifted her as though she were a child, and seating himself, drew her close against his breast.
The night was a hard one; sometimes in an access of pain she struggled for freedom, and all his strength was needed to keep her where she lay.
At times, too, her senses seemed clouded, and she talked incoherently; sometimes she begged for relief, shamelessly craved it; sometimes she used all her force, and, almost beside herself, defied him, threatened him, turned on him infuriated; but his strength held her locked in a vicelike embrace, and, toward morning, she suddenly relaxed--crumpled up like a white flower in his arms.

For a while her tears fell hot and fast; then utter prostration left her limp, without movement, even without a tremor, a dead weight in his arms.
And, for the second time in his life, lifting her, he bore her to her room, laid her among the pillows, slipped off her shoes, and, bending above her, listened.
She slept profoundly--but it was not the stupor that had chained her limbs that other time when he had brought her here.
He went into the library and waited for an hour.

Then, very quietly, he descended the stairs and let himself out into the bitter darkness of a November morning.
* * * * * About noon next day the Seagraves' brougham drew up before the Mallett house and Geraldine, in furs, stepped out and crossed the sidewalk with that swift, lithe grace of hers.

The servant opened the grille; she entered and stood by the great marble-topped hall-table until Duane came down.

Then she gave him her gloved hands, looking him straight in the eyes.
She was still pale but self-possessed, and wonderfully pretty in her fur jacket and toque; and as she stood there, both hands dropped into his, that nameless and winning grace which had always fascinated him held him now--something about her that recalled the child in the garden with clustering hair and slim, straight limbs.
"You look about fifteen," he said, "you beautiful, slender thing! Did you come to see my father ?" "Yes--and your father's son." [Illustration: "Crumpled up like a white flower in his arms."] "Me ?" "Is there another like you, Duane--in all the world ?" "Plenty----" "Hush!...