er hand, I gave her the photograph which I had brought
with me, and talked and talked and talked--of my love for her, of my
grief over her illness, of my joy at her recovery, of the misery it was
to me to be absent a single evening from her side. She lay quietly
looking down at me with imperious eyes and her provocative smile. Once
I remember that she passed her hand over my hair as one caresses a dog;
and it gave me pleasure--the caress. I thrilled under it. I was her
slave, body and soul, and for the moment I rejoiced in my slavery.

And then came the blessed change. Never tell me that there is not a
Providence! I was on the brink of perdition. My feet were on the
edge. Was it a coincidence that at that very instant help should come?
No, no, no; there is a Providence, and its hand has drawn me back.
There is something in the universe stronger than this devil woman with
her tricks. Ah, what a balm to my heart it is to think so!

As I looked up at her I was conscious of a change in her. Her face,
which had been pale before, was now ghastly. Her eyes were dull, and
the lids drooped heavily over them. Above all, the look of serene
confidence had gone from her features. Her mouth had weakened. Her
forehead had puckered. She was frightened and undecided. And as I
watched the change my own spirit fluttered and struggled, trying hard
to tear itself from the grip which held it--a grip which, from moment
to moment, grew less secure.

"Austin," she whispered, "I have tried to do too much. I was not
strong enough. I have not recovered yet from my illness. But I could
not live longer without seeing you. You won't leave me, Austin? This
is only a passing weakness. If you will only give me five minutes, I
shall be myself again. Give me the small decanter from the table in
the window."

But I had regained my soul. With her waning strength the influence had
cleared away from me and left me free. And I was aggressive--bitterly,
fiercely aggressive. For once at least I could make this woman
understand what my real feelings toward her were. My soul was filled
with a hatred as bestial as the love against which it was a reaction.
It was the savage, murderous passion of the revolted serf. I could
have taken the crutch from her side and beaten her face in with it.
She threw her hands up, as if to avoid a blow, and cowered away from me
into the corner of the settee.

"The brandy!" she gasped. "The brandy!"