ly.

"I--it would give me--pleasure--to recommend you to his--attention.
May I write----"

"Thank you, no."

There was another painful interval of silence. Then:

"May I speak to Captain Hallam about you?"

"No, thank you!" he said contemptuously, "I am currying no favours."

Hurt, she shrank away, and the blood mounted to her temples.

"You see," he said, "I'm just a plain brute, and there's no use
being kind to me." He added in a lower voice, but deliberately:
"You once found out that."

She quivered and straightened up.

"Yes," she said, "I found that out. I have paid very dearly for
my--my--" But she could not continue.

Watching her, cap hanging in his gauntleted hand, he saw the colour
deepen and deepen in neck and cheek, saw her eyes falter, and turn
from him.

"Is there any forgiveness for me?" he said. "I didn't ask it
before--because I've still some sense of the ludicrous left in
me--or did have. It's probably gone now, since I've asked if it is
in you to pardon--" He shrugged again, deeming it useless; and she
made no sign of comprehension.

For a while he stood, looking down at his cap, turning it over and
over, thoughtfully.

"Well, then, Ailsa, you are very kind to offer what you did offer.
But--I don't like Colonel Arran," he added with a sneer, "and I
haven't any overwhelming admiration for Captain Hallam. And there
you are, with your kindness and gentleness and--everything--utterly
wasted on a dull, sordid brute who had already insulted you
once. . . . Shall I leave your kitchen?"

"No," she said faintly. "I am going."

He offered to open the door for her, but she opened it herself,
stood motionless, turned, considered him, head high and eyes steady;

"You have killed in me, this night--this Christmas night--something
that can never again l-live in me. Remember that in the years to
come."

"I'm sorry," he said. "That's the second murder I've attempted.
The other was your soul."

Her eyes flashed.

"Even murderers show some remorse--some regret----"

"I do regret," he said deliberately, "that I didn't kill it. . . .
You would have loved me then."

She turned white as death, then, walking slowly up in front of him:

"You lie!" she said in even tones.

Confronted, never stirring, their eyes met; and in the cold,
concentrated fury which possessed her she set her small teeth and
stared at him, rigid, menacing, terrible in her outraged pride.

After a while he stir