e didn't count. But a handsome
young chap, now, in white flannels and sport shirt, his head bound
picturesquely--

"Don't let that bother you," he said. "Those duds of his are mine."

Still, Cutty was grateful for this little diversion. As he drew back
Kitty's chair he was wholly himself again. At once he dictated the trend
of the conversation, moved it whither he willed, into strange channels,
gave them all a glimpse of his amazing versatility, with vivid shafts of
humour to light up corners.

Kuroki, who had travelled far with his master these ten years, sometimes
paused in his rounds to nod affirmatively.

Hawksley listened intently, wondering a bit. What was the dear old
beggar's idea, throwing such fireworks round at breakfast? He stole a
glance at Kitty to see how she was taking it--and caught her stealing a
glance at him. Instantly both switched back to Cutty. Shortly the little
comedy was repeated because neither could resist the invisible force of
some half-conscious inquiry. Third time, they smiled unembarrassedly.
Mind you, they were both hanging upon Cutty's words; only their eyes
were like little children at church, restless. It was spring.

Without being exactly conscious of what he was doing, Hawksley began
to dress Kitty--that is, he visualized her in ball gowns, in sports, in
furs. He put her on horses, in opera boxes, in limousines. But in none
of these pictures could he hold her; she insisted upon returning to her
kitchen to fry bacon and eggs.

Then came a twisted thought, rejected only to return; a surprising
thought, so alluring that the sense of shame, of chivalry, could not
press it back. Cutty's words began to flow into one ear and out of
the other, without sense. There was in his heart--put there by the
recollection of the jewels--an indescribable bitterness, a desperate
cynicism that urged him to strike out, careless of friend or foe. Who
could say what would happen to him when he left here? A flash of spring
madness, then to go forth devil-may-care.

She was really beautiful, full of unsuspected fire. To fan it into white
flame. The whole affair would depend upon whether she cared for music.
If she did he would pluck the soul out of her. She had saved his life.
Well, what of that? He had broken yonder man's bread and eaten his
salt. Still, what of that? Hadn't he come from a race of scoundrels?
The blood--he had smothered and repressed it all his life--to unleash it
once, happen what