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 might. If she were really fond of music!

Once again Kitty's glance roved back to Hawksley. This time she

encountered a concentration in his unwavering stare. She did not

quite like it. Perhaps he was only thinking about something and wasn't

actually seeing her. Still, it quieted down the fluttering gayety of her

mood. There was a sun spot of her own that became visible whenever her

interest in Cutty's monologue lagged. Perhaps Hawksley had his sun spot.

"And so," she heard Cutty say. "Mr. Hawksley is going to become an

American citizen. Kitty, what are some of the principles of good

citizenship?"

"To be nice to policemen. Not to meddle with politics, because it is

vulgar. To vote perfunctorily. To 'let George do it' when there are

reforms to be brought about. To keep your hat on when the flag goes

by because otherwise you will attract attention. To find fault without

being able to offer remedies. To keep in debt because life here in

America would be monotonous without bill collectors."

Cutty interrupted with a laugh. "Kitty, you'll 'scare Hawksley off the

map!"

"Let him know the worst at once," retorted Kitty, flashing a smile at

the victim.

"Spoofing me--what?" said Hawksley, appealing to his host.

This quality of light irony in a woman was a distinct novelty to

Hawksley. She had humour, then? So much the better. An added zest to the

game he was planning. He recalled now that she was not of the clinging

kind either. A woman with a humorous turn of mind was ten times more

elusive than a purely sentimental one. Give him an hour or two with that

old Amati--if she really cared for music! She would be coming to the

apartment again--some afternoon, when his host was out of the way.

Better still, he would call her by telephone; the plea of loneliness.

Scoundrel? Of course he was. He was not denying that. He would embark

upon this affair without the smug varnish of self-lies. Fire--to play

with it!




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