to do with anarchists."

He snatched the violets from the table and flung them on the hearth:
"Begone, or I'll call the police." He was in a tempest of rage. His
disappointment rose in his throat and choked him.

The old woman shrank back from him step by step. He followed
threateningly:

"Begone, you beggar."

His heart beat unpleasantly. Devil take the old woman! Impostor! She
was old and ugly as sin. He was sleepy and weary. Why had he taken
the violets; why had he read the note? If the girl were not Kaya, then
who--who?

"Come," he cried sharply, "Be off!"

Suddenly the woman buried her head in her hands. She began to sob in
long drawn breaths; they shook her form. She fell back against the
Erard, trembling and sobbing.

Velasco stared down at her. His anger left him like a flash and his
heart softened. Poor thing, poor creature! She was old and feeble,
and crippled. He had forgotten. He had only thought of her, Kaya, the
girl with the flower-like face. He shook himself, as if out of a
dream, and his hand patted the woman's shoulder soothingly. His voice
lost its sharpness.

"Don't," he said, "Don't cry like that, my dear Madame--no, don't! It
will be all right. I was hasty. Don't mind what I said,--don't--no!"

She dashed his hand from her shoulder and broke into passionate
weeping: "You play like a god," she cried, "but you are not; you are a
brute. You have no heart. It is your violin that has the heart.
Don't touch me--let me go! It was so little I asked, so little!"

She struggled away from him, but Velasco pursued her. His heart
misgave him. He grasped her cloak with one hand, the hood with the
other, trying to raise it; "Stop!" he said, "I can't stand a woman
crying, young or old. I can't stand it; it makes me sick. Stop, I
tell you! I'll do anything. I'll--I'll marry you--You shall go to
Germany with me. Only stop for heaven's sake. Don't cry like
that--don't!"

He stooped over the shrinking figure still lower; his arm pressed her
shoulder. She struggled with him blindly, still sobbing.

"Now, by heaven," cried Velasco, "If you are to be my wife, I'll see
your face at least. Be still, Madame, be still!"

The woman cowered away from him, holding out her hands, pressing him
back. "I beg of you--I beseech you," she said, "Not my face! No--no,
Monsieur!"

She gazed at him in terror, and as she gazed, the hood slipped back
from her hair; it fell in a golden f