in opportunities, lessons abroad, introductions,
a career, in fact--"

"And meanwhile you were going to act as her protector?" broke in Kate.

"Why--why, yes. Exactly!"

The faintest smile just lifted her lip. "From yourself?" she murmured.

Channing's eyes dropped. He would have given years of his life to meet
without flinching that little smile. "I repeat, I would have married
Jacqueline as soon as it was possible." He spoke with an effort for
quiet dignity that was not convincing, even to himself; perhaps because
he noticed just then, for the first time, the dog-whip which Mrs.
Kildare was twisting and untwisting in her strong fingers.

"I suppose that dream is over now," he added sadly--a little hastily.

"I think we may safely say," she admitted, "that that dream is over."

He could not lift his eyes from those slender, muscular fingers. Across
his too-vivid imagination had flashed Farwell's picture of the Madam
going to the rescue of her fighting negroes. A little shudder went down
his back. He wondered what he should do if she suddenly attacked him.
Could he lay his hands upon a woman? Should he call for help? Must he
simply stand there and let her--whip him?...

At that moment a whistle sounded, and the train began to slow down for a
station. To his almost sick relief, Mrs. Kildare drew her cape about her
shoulders. "I get off here," she said.

He rushed into speech. "Will you please tell Jacqueline how miserably
sorry I am--how I regret--"

She cut him short. "I will tell Jacqueline nothing, and neither will
you. All this"--she waved an inclusive hand about the stateroom--"_it
never happened_."

"What! You mean--she is to believe I did not come for her?"

"Exactly. You have disappeared. And without any explanations to
anybody."

"But, Mrs. Kildare! Good Lord! What will she think of me?"

"That you have simply broken your word again; which," said Kate, "is
what I intend her to think. She shall not be further humiliated by the
knowledge that there has been--an audience."

He began to understand. Kate knew her daughter. Pride was to be called
to the rescue, and he himself would play a very sorry part hereafter in
the memory of Jacqueline.

"But, Mrs. Kildare!" his vanity protested. "Really, I can't--"

His eyes dropped again, as if magnetized, to that twisting whip.

The author was not of the material out of which he created his heroes.
He had a dread, an acute physical dislike, of what is cal