in both his hands.

"Why?"

"I think you know," she murmured, her lips trembling.

He gave a cry, and as he was about again to embrace her they heard
Dearborn's step upon the stairs.

* * * * *

Mrs. Faversham was in the window looking out upon Paris, and Fairfax was
modelling on his study when the playwright came in with a can of milk,
some madeleines and a pot of jam.

After she had gone he wanted to escape and be alone, but Dearborn
chatted, pacing the studio, whilst Fairfax dressed and shaved, praising
the visitor.

"She's a great lady, Tony. What breeding and race! And she's not what
the books call 'indifferent' to you."

"Go to the devil, Dearborn!"

Dearborn went to work instead, not to lose the inspiration of the lovely
woman. He began a new scene, and dressed his character in dove grey with
silver fox at her throat.

CHAPTER XVI

Fairfax, at the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, found instead of the
entrance he had expected, a note for him.

"I cannot see you to-night. Be generous,--understand me. Mr.
Cedersholm leaves for Russia to-morrow, he has asked me as a last
favour to let him see me. I have done him so much wrong that I
cannot refuse him. Come early to-morrow morning, and we will walk
in the Bois together. I am yours,

"MARY."

He read the letter before the footman, and the "yours, Mary" made his
heart bound and his throat contract. He walked toward the Champs Elysees
slowly, thinking. Cedersholm sailed to-morrow, away from France. He was
sent away beaten, bruised, conquered. He must have loved her. No man
could help it. Was this the beginning of Fairfax's triumph? Well, he
could not help it--he was glad. Cedersholm had stolen his fire, the
labour of his youth, and now he would not have been human if there had
not been a thrill through him that the conqueror knows. He could spare
him this farewell evening with the woman who signed herself "I am yours,
Mary."

"Vade in Pace," he murmured.

Then the vision of the woman rose more poignant than anything else, and
he saw her as she had stood under his hands, the tears in her eyes, and
the fire and pallor of passion on her face.

What should he do now? Marry her, of course. He would be married, then,
twice at thirty. He shook his broad shoulders as though instinctively he
chafed under the sudden adjusting to them of a burden. He limped out
into the Champs Elysees, under the