ple. There, I
say it again. Be simple."

Lady Richard's merry laugh rang through the garden, and a brusque "Damn
it!" of Morewood's floated out from the open window of the billiard-room.
There was an odd contrast to this cheerful levity in the man's pale drawn
face as he looked into May Gaston's eyes.

"Do you really mean what you say?" he asked. "Or are you only trying to
be kind, to put me at my ease?"

"It's nobody's fault but your own that you're not always at your ease,"
she replied. The rest she let pass; when she asked him to walk with her
she had only been trying to be kind, and she had been fearful of what her
kindness might entail on her. But things went well; he was not flirting
and he was not acting; his manners, if still bad, were just now at least
not borrowed, they were home-grown.

"I am at my ease," he told her. "At least, I was till----" He hesitated,
and then went on slowly, "Don't you suppose I've been thinking about what
you said?"

"I hope not; it wasn't worth it."

"It was. But how can I change?" His voice had a touch of despair as well
as of defiance. "I don't see what you mean; I don't feel what you mean.
Yes, and you talk of morals too. Well, don't I know that every now and
then I--I don't see those either?" He paused. "A man must get on as well
as he can with what he's got," he resumed. "If he's only got one eye, he
must learn to be sharper than other men in looking round."

They walked on in silence for some way. His pride and his recognition of
his defects, his defiance and his pleading for himself, combined to touch
her heart, and she could not at the moment speak to him more about them.
And to find all that so near the surface, so eager for utterance, ready
to break out at the least encouragement, at the first sign of sympathy!
For it had not come home to her yet that another might have spoken to him
as she had, but found no response and opened the gates to no confidence;
she had not guessed what Aunt Maria had about the Empress among women.

"You're ill too," she said.

"No, not for me," he answered. "I'm pretty well for me."

"Are you never really well?"

"My body's not much better than the other things. But I must use that
too, as long as it'll last." There was no appeal for pity in his voice;
defiance was still uppermost. May felt that she must not let him see that
she pitied him, either for his bad body, or his bad manners, or his bad
morals, or his want of friends. He th