ver been a certain constant attention, a sweeping glance, a
quiet scrutiny of persons unaware of his observance, a memory of details
and words and dates in some degree inhuman, and in the first hand-clasp
she recognized the power she had not had the vision to see in the years
before.

With both hands in his and her breath caught in her throat with
gratitude, she said:

"If you think I'm going to try to thank you for all you've done for me
here in Paris, you're mistaken, Dermott. I'm not." And then, with a
quick catching of the breath: "I couldn't do it adequately, no matter
how I tried. I know it was you who arranged for me to live here with
Madame de Nemours; I know how you've been writing to Josef concerning my
studies; I know how your kindness has followed me everywhere. That's why
I can't thank you," she said, with dewy lashes and the deep note in her
voice which made her speech ever seem like a caress.

"I've done little," Dermott answered. "I hope, however, to do more."
There was significance in his words, and Katrine looked at him quickly,
to find him, however, gazing intently into the fire. "Tell me of
yourself," he said; "all of it: the work, the ambitions, and the
achievements. I have hungered at times for direct news of you. Already
your fame is newspaper talk. You are happy?" he asked, abruptly.

"Happier than I thought I ever could be again," she answered, with an
evasion.

"Once," he began, in a remote tone, "I was in Arabia with a native
serving-man whom I tried to persuade to follow me on a shooting-trip in
the desert. He said he couldn't go because he had a wife who wouldn't
leave him. 'I made the mistake of beating her once,' he explained to me,
'and after a man has struck a woman once she'll stick to him forever.'"

If he expected angry speech of hurt remonstrance because of the too
evident implication of the story, he was disappointed, for Katrine
raised her eyes to his with sad frankness. "I think it speaks a truth,
Dermott," she said. "Sometimes I wonder if there ever was a woman who
loved the man who was kindest to her." "It's unrecorded if it ever
occurred," he answered, moodily, taking another road in the
conversation on the instant. "Madame de Nemours wrote me that you are to
sing at Josef's recital next month."

"Yes, it is arranged."

"That will mean an opera engagement somewhere, will it not?"

Katrine laughed. "That's as may be. It depends on how I sing."

There was flattery in