ded a mind festering with foul memories. I have been a brute to you,
a traitor to a friend who trusted me. I have been a sensualist, an
adulterer. And I am hopelessly broken in pride and self-respect. The
conceit, the pluck even, has been licked right out of me."--Richard
paused, steadying his voice which faltered again.--"I only want, since
it seems I've got to go on living, to slink away somewhere out of
sight, and hide myself and my wretchedness and shame from every one I
know.--Can you bear with me, soured and invalided as I am, mother? Can
you put up with my temper, and my silence, and my grumbling, useless
log as I must continue to be?"

"Yes--everlastingly yes," Katherine answered.

Richard threw himself flat on his back again.

"Ah! how I hate myself--my God, how I hate myself!" he exclaimed.

"And how beyond all worlds I love you," Katherine put in quietly.

He felt out for her hand across the sheet, found and held it. There
were footsteps upon the terrace to the right, the scent of a cigar,
Ludovic Quayle's voice in question, Honoria St. Quentin's in answer,
both with enforced discretion and lowness of tone. General Ormiston
joined them. Miss St. Quentin laughed gently. The sound was musical and
sweet. Footsteps and voices died away. A clang of bells and the hooting
of an outward-bound liner came up from the city and the port.

Richard's calm had returned. His expression had softened.

"Will those two marry?" he asked presently.

Lady Calmady paused before speaking.

"I hope so--for Ludovic's sake," she said. "He has served, if not quite
Jacob's seven years, yet a full five for his love."

"If for Ludovic's sake, why not for hers?" Dickie asked.

"Because two halves don't always make a whole in marriage," Katherine
said.

"You are as great an idealist as ever!"--He paused, then raised
himself, sitting upright, speaking with a certain passion.

"Mother, will you take me away, away from every one, at once, just as
soon as possible? I never want to see this room, or this house, or
Naples again. The climax was reached here of disillusion, and of
iniquity, and of degradation. Don't ask what it was. I couldn't tell
you. And, mercifully, only one person, whose lips are sealed in
self-defense, knows exactly what took place besides myself. But I want
to get away, away alone with you, who are perfectly unsullied and
compassionate, and who have forgiven me, and who still can love. Will
you come? Will you t