ked, fate and I! You have no heart left, no
feeling. You can create suffering and find it amusing. I am beginning to
realize that."

He nodded.

"There is some truth," he declared, "In what you say."

"What of that child? Is she, too, to be a victim?"

"I trust," he answered, "that you are not going to be melodramatic."

"I don't call it that. I really want to know. I should like to warn
her."

"I am not at war with children," he answered. "Her life and mine are as
far apart as the poles."

"I had an odd fancy when I saw you with her," Lady Ruth said slowly.
"She is very good-looking--and not so absurdly young."

"The fancy was one," he remarked coldly, "which I think you had better
get rid of."

"In a way," she continued thoughtfully, "I should like to get rid of it,
and yet--how old are you, Wingrave? Well, I know. You are very little
over forty. You are barely in the prime of life, you are strong, you
have the one thing which society today counts almost divine--great,
immeasurable wealth! Can't you find someone to thaw the snows?"

"I loved a woman once," he answered. "It was a long time ago, and it
seems strange to me now."

Lady Ruth lifted her eyes to his, and their lambent fires were suddenly
rekindled.

"Love her again," she murmured. "What is past is past, but there are the
days to come! Perhaps the woman, too, is a little lonely."

"I think not," he answered calmly. "The woman is married, she has lived
with her husband more or less happily for a dozen years or so! She is
a little ambitious, a little fond of pleasure, but a leader of society,
and, I am sure, a very reputable member of it. To love her again would
be as embarrassing to her--as it would be difficult for me. You, my dear
Lady Ruth, I am convinced, would be the last to approve of it."

"You mock me," she murmured, bending her head. "Is forgiveness also an
impossibility?"

"I think," he said, "that any sentiment whatever between those two would
be singularly misplaced. You spoke of Melba, I think! She is singing in
the further room."

Lady Ruth rose up, still and pale. There was fear in her eyes when she
looked at him.

"Is it to be always like this, then?" she said.

"Ah!" he answered, "I am no prophet. Who can tell what the days may
bring? In the meantime..."

The Marchioness was very much in request that evening, and she found
time for only a few words with Wingrave.

"What have you been doing to poor Ruth?" she asked. "