. What had Cissy to do with it all? He
put his thought into words.

"What of that?" he asked. "I don't understand how I have injured you."

"Oh, you have not injured me," Drexley answered bitterly. "You have
simply stood between me and salvation."

"You must speak more plainly if you want me to understand you," Douglas
said.

"There was only one thing in the world which could have saved me from
this--from myself," Drexley continued fiercely. "Call me what hard
names you like. I'll accept them. I wasted half a lifetime only to
find that my folly had been colossal. No other woman but your cousin
has ever been kind to me--she held out her hand and I seemed to see the
light--and then you must come and take her from me."

Douglas gazed at him in blank amazement.

"Do you mean to tell me that you care for my cousin--seriously--would
have asked her to marry you?" he exclaimed. "Yes."

"And she?"

"She was kind to me. In time I should have won her. I am sure of it."

Douglas rose from his chair and walked restlessly up and down the room.

"Drexley," he said, "if only I could have guessed this--if only I could
have had any idea of it!"

"You couldn't," Drexley answered shortly. "I couldn't myself. I'd have
given the lie to anybody who had dared so much as to hint at it. It was
like a thunderclap to me."

"You know that I have asked her to be my wife?" "Yes."

"Listen then," Douglas said, suddenly pausing in his restless walk and
facing his companion. "I will tell you how it came about. You remember
the night that we were at the 'Milan'?

"Yes."

"Emily de Reuss was there."

"Yes."

"For months I had been steadily trying to forget her. That night the
work of months was undone. She had only to hold out her hands, to speak
for a moment kindly, and the truth seemed to flare out in letters of
fire. I cannot forget her. I never shall be able to forget her. I own
myself, Drexley, one of the vanquished. I love her as I shall never
love any other woman in this world."

Drexley's face was black with passion, but Douglas would not have him
speak.

"Wait," he said. "Hear my story first. I left you that night
abruptly--as you know. I went to her. I put aside all false modesty.
I forgot that I was only a journalist with a possible future and no
past--and that she was an aristocrat--my passion carried me away. I
knew only that I was a man and she was the woman I loved. So I pleaded
with her, and at first I thought tha