ed crimson. "Oh, of course you thought otherwise,"
she said, throwing up her pretty head. "I pay for my own livelihood,
Mr. Bulstrode," she told him proudly, "I pay for _everything_ I have
and wear and eat and do. Don't feel badly at misunderstanding," she
comforted him sweetly--"You have nothing to apologize for. Why should
you or anyone think otherwise? But I don't care in the least what
people say or think; that is, _I only care what one person says_."

With some of his gold in her palm and some of his bills in her hands,
Felicia Warren put both her hands on Bulstrode's arm. "No," she said
softly, "_I only care what one person thinks_. Can't you see that you
mustn't give me this?"

"No," he persisted doggedly, charmed by her beyond his reason and angry
to find that she would not let him help her in the way he wished, "I do
_not_ see! You must let me help you, you shall not be driven to
desperation."

"Driven to desperation!" her expression seemed to say. Yes, so she had
been, but not through financial anxieties.

"Why, I had rather starve than take your money. I could far sooner
have taken it from poor Pollona; and he left me so dreadfully angry
this morning."

For a second neither spoke. He saw the soft mobile face touched to its
finest. Felicia's eyes were violet and large, and their expression at
the moment pierced him with its appeal.

"Don't you see?" she whispered. Her voice broke here. Her hands
trembled on his arm, some of the gold rattled on the floor and rolled
under the divan. She swayed and Bulstrode caught her.

"... Ever since you came to the mill," she whispered,
"ever--since--you--came--to--the--mill."

Before Bulstrode had time to realize what she said, or the fact that
his arm was about her, she had rushed across the room, thrown open the
window and gone out on the balcony. Left alone with what her words
implied, Bulstrode watched her go.

The clock on the mantel pointed to three and through the open window
came the long, rushing sound of the sea on the beach. The day was
breaking and Bulstrode could see the white figure of Felicia Warren
between the lighted room and the dawn.

He told himself that there was no reason why he should look upon her as
anything but an adventuress--and a very clever one--a very dangerous
one. But, at all events, there _was_ no doubt that she was Felicia
Doan. She refused his money, and she told him that she loved him. But
Jimmy Bulstrode,