on d'etre_ of her partiality for himself, the
pleasure she had seemed to take in being with him. She had talked about
Colvin, then, when designedly, he had led the conversation to some other
subject, she had always brought it back to Colvin, in a lingering
wistful way that told its own tale over and over again. But this, too,
had ceased, and she gradually talked less and less of Colvin, and seemed
to listen with increased interest to Colvin's facsimile.

"There's where I score," said Kenneth to himself, "and I am going to
work the circumstance for all it is worth."

This working of the circumstance was to be a means to an end, and that
end was that he meant to marry May Wenlock.

Why did he? She was not quite of his class. He had seen her
surroundings, as represented immediately, at any rate, and they had
revolted him. Well, he could raise her above her surroundings, besides
the very fact of her coming of the stock she did was not without its
advantages. She would be all the more fitted to bear her part in the
adventure he was planning: would have no superfine scruples or
misgivings as to accepting the splendid--the really dazzling destiny he
had mapped out for her--to share with him. She, in a measure, had
supplied the key to the opening of that golden possibility of the
future, had brought it within really tangible reach, therefore she
should share it. And this possibility, this adventure, was worth
staking all for--even life itself. It needed boldness, judgment, utter
unscrupulousness, and he possessed all three. It was vast--it was
magnificent.

And then the beauty of the girl appealed powerfully to his physical
nature. Those sea-blue velvety eyes, those waves of hair in rippling
heavy gold, those full red lips, the smooth skin, a mixture of sun-kiss
and the healthy flush of blood underneath, the firm rounded figure--that
should all be his, he would think when alone with his own reflections in
a perfect whirl of passion, after one of those long interviews or walks
with May that had now become so frequent, and to himself so amazingly
sweet. Yet towards her he was ever careful to veil any indication of
feeling. Colvin himself could hardly have been more utterly indifferent
so far as all outward manifestations were concerned.

One day, however, he slipped. They had been out together and May had
been more than ordinarily sweet and winning. It was dusk, and he was
bidding her farewell within her tempo