Yes, he had been arbitrary. There seemed to
be a strain of brutality in his nature. Poor Zuleika! He was glad for
her that she had contrived to master her infatuation... Enough for him
that he was loved by this exquisite meek girl who had served him at the
feast. Anon, when he summoned her to clear the things away, he would bid
her tell him the tale of her lowly passion. He poured a second glass
of port, sipped it, quaffed it, poured a third. The grey gloom of the
weather did but, as he eyed the bottle, heighten his sense of the rich
sunshine so long ago imprisoned by the vintner and now released to make
glad his soul. Even so to be released was the love pent for him in the
heart of this sweet girl. Would that he loved her in return!... Why not?

"Prius insolentem
Serva Briseis niveo colore
Movit Achillem."

Nor were it gracious to invite an avowal of love and offer none in
return. Yet, yet, expansive though his mood was, he could not pretend to
himself that he was about to feel in this girl's presence anything but
gratitude. He might pretend to her? Deception were a very poor return
indeed for all her kindness. Besides, it might turn her head. Some small
token of his gratitude--some trinket by which to remember him--was all
that he could allow himself to offer... What trinket? Would she like
to have one of his scarf-pins? Studs? Still more abs--Ah! he had it, he
literally and most providentially had it, there, in the fender: a pair
of ear-rings!

He plucked the pink pearl and the black from where they lay, and rang
the bell.

His sense of dramatic propriety needed that the girl should, before he
addressed her, perform her task of clearing the table. If she had it
to perform after telling her love, and after receiving his gift and his
farewell, the bathos would be distressing for them both.

But, while he watched her at her task, he did wish she would be a little
quicker. For the glow in him seemed to be cooling momently. He wished
he had had more than three glasses from the crusted bottle which she was
putting away into the chiffonier. Down, doubt! Down, sense of disparity!
The moment was at hand. Would he let it slip? Now she was folding up the
table-cloth, now she was going.

"Stay!" he uttered. "I have something to say to you." The girl turned to
him.

He forced his eyes to meet hers. "I understand," he said in a
constrained voi