that I should find so rare a gentleman
here"--she laughed--"I would have thought they were talking medieval
gallantry."

"Thank you. A gentleman is always himself when a lady is a lady."

Claire flushed a little, and said nothing.

"I shall remember you with pleasure and regret," continued Philip, his
head high.

Her eyes opened wide, like a child's. "Oh, with regret, too?"

"Yes. Regret that you did not come to my cabin sooner, freer, and to
stay longer."

"You are a consummate flatterer, Philip," she chided.

"I suppose it seems artificial; one can scarcely imagine that I should
be in earnest," he said, a little bitterly.

Her conscience hurt her, though she did not know why. She could have
said those things before and thought nothing of them. Why did she feel
sorry now?

"I didn't mean that," she said, earnestly. "Believe me, I did not."

"No," he replied, "you answered out of mere indifference."

"But I am not indifferent to you, Philip. I like you very much." She was
afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she, herself, was so tense, so
troubled, that she was uncertain of her emotional attitudes these days.
She felt that somehow she had been cruel and very ungracious toward the
man to whom she owed so much.

"I know," he said, "one is interested, of course, in a novel, foreign
mountaineer."

She was beginning to feel achy, and tears were near the surface.

"Philip, why do you misunderstand me?" she cried. "It isn't that at all.
I like you for the man you are."

He smiled sadly. "And did it ever occur to you that I might love you for
the woman you are?" he said suddenly, his good resolutions all gone.

She stopped and her breath quickened. Over her rushed a tide of fear,
regret, sorrow. Even then she wondered that it was pity and not anger
which moved her.

"I do not believe that. How could you?" she said swiftly.

"You cannot even conceive of my loving you?"

"I--I can, Philip--it isn't that, I--I"--she was floundering among her
own emotions--"I can under other circumstances, different conditions.
Oh, don't you see--think of"--she had almost said "Lawrence," but
hastily substituted--"my husband."

"I have thought of him. From the day you came, he has haunted my
footsteps. But after all, he thinks you are dead."

"But I love him. Think of that, too."

"Oh, Claire, Claire, I have seen you when I felt perhaps you
might--might learn to love me."

"Philip, it is impossible!" she cried. "Plea