d to the dark head and
surveyed it critically. The collar of his coat was turned up all round
it. It was glistening with rain-drops and looked like the head of some
small, furry animal.

As if aware of that straight regard, the dancer presently spoke, without
turning or moving an eyelid.

"What you are doesn't matter to any one except yourself. And what I am
doesn't matter either. It's just--nobody's business."

"I see," said Merryon.

A faint smile crossed his grim, hard-featured face. He sat down in a low
chair near his guest and drew to his side a small table that bore a tray
of refreshments. He poured out a glass of wine and held it towards the
queer, elfin figure crouched upon his hearth.

The dark eyes suddenly flashed from the fire to his face. "Why do you
offer me--that?" the dancer demanded, in a voice that was curiously
vibrant, as though it strove to conceal some overwhelming emotion. "Why
don't you give me--a man's drink?"

"Because I think this will suit you better," Merryon said; and he spoke
with a gentleness that was oddly at variance with the frown that drew
his brows.

The dark eyes stared up at him, scared and defiant, for the passage of
several seconds; then, very suddenly, the tension went out of the white,
pinched face. It screwed up like the face of a hurt child, and all in a
moment the little, huddled figure collapsed on the floor at his feet,
while sobs--a woman's quivering piteous sobs--filled the silence of the
room.

Merryon's own face was a curious mixture of pity and constraint as he
set down the glass and stooped forward over the shaking, anguished form.

"Look here, child!" he said, and whatever else was in his voice it
certainly held none of the hardness habitual to it. "You're
upset--unnerved. Don't cry so! Whatever you've been through, it's over.
No one can make you go back. Do you understand? You're free!"

He laid his hand, with the clumsiness of one little accustomed to
console, upon the bowed black head.

"Don't!" he said again. "Don't cry so! What the devil does it matter?
You're safe enough with me. I'm not the sort of bounder to give you
away."

She drew a little nearer to him. "You--you're not a bounder--at all,"
she assured him between her sobs. "You're just--a gentleman. That's what
you are!"

"All right," said Merryon. "Leave off crying!"

He spoke with the same species of awkward kindliness that characterized
his actions, and there must have been somethin