have gambled for luck, lost all, and won all back! Oh--I don't
know what I'm saying, but I mean that one thing would have been enough,
and there came two, two at once, here in the middle of this gloomy
wood, this Inferno of a place I have hated so well and so long.
Gad--it isn't half bad to-night though! I feel like a gentleman, I
hope I look like one; I can act like one at least: pay my way, pay for
this little spread, pay for your roses--what did you think when you saw
them?"

Pauline did not take her eyes off him. She was alarmed, not believing
a word he said, and she did not answer with her usual spirit.

"I thought them very wonderful of course in this out-of-the-way place.
Did you send for them?"

"My lady is cautious. New for her. Where is our Gallic zeal and
impetuosity gone? You're afraid of me! I see it. You think I'm
drunk?"

She shook her head, but her smile was somewhat wan.

"Here, I'll convince you. Take my hands, both of them. Both of them,
I say. At once, madam."

She did so and he drew her near, nearer, till their knees were touching.

"Now you answer me. Are they steady?"

"Yes."

"Very reluctantly given. Are they quite steady and firm like your own
or like those of your parson friend?"

"Oh, don't, don't! Yes--quite firm, quite steady."

"You see! Now look at my eyes, look into them, lady dear. At once,
madam. You find that trying, do you, but persevere. Well--what do you
find? Are they wild, bloodshot, glazed, glaring? No? Only your image
therein. And by God, Pauline, there never was and never will be any
image half so beautiful, half so dear. That you must and will believe.
Well, then--no, don't draw your hands away--about this money, for I'm
perfectly sober and desirous of telling you the truth. You have the
right to know. One thing led to another, but the first of it was like
this. I've always been a scribbler in my lazy moments, as you know,
but perhaps you can't be expected to know that I have put care and
strong thought, art and heart both, into some verse that I occasionally
would take out and look over, and then lock away again. How could I,
forlorn and degraded, an outcast from society, hope to effect anything
in literature! Yet I never destroyed any of these pet lucrubations of
mine, and one day, a few months ago, I picked out a poem, copied it
fair when my hand wasn't shaking, and sent it to a magazine in England.
They took it--and I was so surpri