sat beside the wood fire.
They laughed and talked; and before it was time to go he was telling
her how different life might have been if he had known her years before.
With ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked, ill-disciplined boy
he had been, and impulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit upon his wrist
the scar from a saber cut which he had received in a duel outside of
Paris when he was nineteen. She touched his hand as she scanned the red
cicatrice on the inside of his white wrist. A quick impulse that was
somewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutch
upon his hand. He felt the pressure of her pointed nails in the flesh of
his palm.

She arose hastily and walked toward the mantel.

"The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me," she said.
"I shouldn't have looked at it."

"I beg your pardon," he entreated, following her; "it never occurred to
me that it might be repulsive."

He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old,
vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw
enough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he
said his lingering good night.

"Will you go to the races again?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I've had enough of the races. I don't want to lose all
the money I've won, and I've got to work when the weather is bright,
instead of--"

"Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning
may I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?"

"No!"

"Day after?"

"No, no."

"Oh, please don't refuse me! I know something of such things. I might
help you with a stray suggestion or two."

"No. Good night. Why don't you go after you have said good night? I
don't like you," she went on in a high, excited pitch, attempting
to draw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and
sincerity, and she knew that he felt it.

"I'm sorry you don't like me. I'm sorry I offended you. How have I
offended you? What have I done? Can't you forgive me?" And he bent and
pressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdraw
them.

"Mr. Arobin," she complained, "I'm greatly upset by the excitement of
the afternoon; I'm not myself. My manner must have misled you in some
way. I wish you to go, please." She spoke in a monotonous, dull tone.
He took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her,
looking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an imp