going to make trouble for any one, are
you?"

"Am I not?" he answered, with a short laugh. "Am I not?"

She took a bundle of papers, which she had evidently prepared for him,
from a desk which stood between the windows, but made no motion to give
them to him.

"It's all so far in the past," she said, "no one can ever know what I
suffered. But I want no one else to suffer in order that I may have what
you term my rights."

"Patricia," Dermott answered, gravely, "the thing is all a bit in the
air as yet. Your first marriage will be difficult to establish. The
French law requires such absolute proof that I may not be able to obtain
it. Now, don't let us discuss the matter further, nor worry that kind
heart of yours." He patted her head affectionately as he spoke.

In the years past she had known him well enough to remember his moods,
and she gave him the papers in silence.

"About Mademoiselle Dulany," she continued. "Since your letter, I have
made inquiries concerning her. I shall be glad to know her, for her own
sake as well as yours."

"I'm going to ask a great favor of you for her, Patricia," he answered.
"You live in this great house alone. It would be better to have more
people about you. I want you to see much of her, for I am hoping that
some day she may be my wife."

He spoke the last word tenderly, a bit wistfully.

"Ah, Dermott," she cried, "I had no idea! I shall be so glad to do
anything I can! Why couldn't she come and stay with me?"

"That is like you," he answered, gratefully; "but such things can never
be arranged happily. They must grow. Wait until you meet her. I am to
see her to-night. I will bring her to you to-morrow, if I may."

"It is arranged, this marriage?" she asked, delighted at a bit of
romance.

"Not in the least," he answered, concisely.

"But she loves you?"

"On the contrary," he said, quietly, "she loves another."

"And you are hoping--" The Countess hesitated.

"Not hoping," Dermott answered, "determined."

"How old is she?"

"Nearly nineteen, and Irish."

"Irish girls are hard to change."

"But you loved your second husband, did you not?" Dermott inquired.

"I hope I was a good wife," the Countess answered, evasively, adding,
"But you remember our own Tom Moore!"

"'The wild freshness of morning--'?"

Dermott stood looking into the fire, his eyes drooped, his face
saddened.

"But there is something else to remember as well," Madame de Nemours
said, touch