ke, Grizel!" Martin came to a standstill in front of
her chair, his face flushed with protest. "For heaven's sake speak the
truth, and drop pretence! You are going to keep the money,--very well!
but it is not for such reasons as those... There are precious few
illusions left in life,--don't kill one of the few that remain! You
will keep the money, not out of self-indulgence, but because it was Lady
Griselda's wish, and because there is no stronger claim upon you,
until--until the time arrives, as it _will_ arrive, when you meet a
man--"

"Whom I love," concluded Grizel calmly. She was silent for a moment,
then in the deepest, most bell-like notes of her beautiful voice, she
added a few soft words. "More than the world! More than riches--more
than my life. And then--"

"Then?" queried Martin breathlessly. To the end of his life he would
hear the echo of Grizel's voice intoning those thrilling words:

"It will depend upon him, and how brave he can be," she returned
quietly. She rose in her turn, and bending over the desk, drew together
the scattered sheets. "How is the novel going, Martin? What is
happening to them all? I was going to help, but fate intervened, and
turned me into a heroine myself. Is she happy, your little girl with
the hill-tarn eyes?"

"Yes--no. I couldn't get on. The novel is shelved _pro tem_. My head
was too full of other things. Your position, and the problem of the
whole situation were so constantly in my mind, that it was a relief to
work it out on paper... Those sheets are the draft of a short story,
dealing with such a position--but not for publication."

"I'm glad of that! I should not like it to be published," said Grizel
quickly. Her cheeks were flushed, she glanced at the sheets with an air
at once timid and eager. "It would be interesting to hear what you make
of it! May I read?"

"There's so little done. Just the situation roughed in. A girl
beautiful, alluring, left with a choice like yours, a man, loving her--"

"What kind of a man?"

"Ordinary--quite ordinary. A dull dog, but with a capacity, a hideous
capacity for suffering--"

Grizel subsided on to the swivel chair, and lifted a quill pen from the
rack. The seriousness, the quiet, almost timid manner of the last few
minutes had disappeared as by a flash. Now she was composed again,
mischievous, audacious; the dimples dipping in her soft, round cheek.
She rested her elbows on the desk and nibbled