Never had Kitty heard such music. To be played to in this

manner--directly, with embracing tenderness, with undivided fire--would

have melted the soul of Gobseck the money lender; and Kitty was

warm-blooded, Irish, emotional. The fiddle called poignantly to the

Irish in her. She wanted to go roving with this man; with her hand on

his shoulder to walk in the thin air of high places. Through it all,

however, she felt vaguely troubled; the instinct of the trap. The

sinister and cynical idea which had clandestinely taken up quarters

in her mind awoke and assailed her from a new angle, that of youth.

Something in her cried out: "Stop! Stop!" But her lips were mute, her

body enchained.

Suddenly Hawksley laid aside the fiddle and advanced. He reached

down and drew her up. Kitty did not resist him; she was numb with

enchantment. He held her close for a second, then kissed her--her hair,

eyes, mouth--released her and stepped back, a bantering smile on his

lips and cold terror in his heart. The devil who had inspired this phase

of the drama now deserted his victim, as he generally does in the face

of superior forces.

Kitty stood perfectly still for a full minute, stunned. It was that

smile--frozen on his lips--that brought her back to intimacy with cold

realities. Had he asked her pardon, had he shown the least repentance,

she might have forgiven, forgotten. But knowing mankind as she did she

could give but one interpretation to that smile--of which he was no

longer conscious.

Without anger, in quiet, level tones she said: "I had foolishly thought

that we two might be friends. You have made it impossible. You have also

abused the kindly hospitality of the man who has protected you from your

enemies. A few days ago he did me the honour to ask me to marry him. I

am going to. I wish you no evil." She turned and walked from the room.

Even then there was time. But he did not move. It was not until he

heard the elevator gate crash that he was physically released from

the thraldom of the inner revelation. Love--in the blinding flash of a

thunderbolt! He had kissed her not because he was the son of his father,

but because he loved her! And now he never could tell her. He must let

her go, believing that the man she had saved from death had repaid her

with insult. On top of all his misfortunes, his tragedies--love! There

was a God, yes, but his name was Irony. Love! He stepped toward the

divan, stumbled, and fell against it, his arms spread over the pillows;

and in this position he remained.




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