ing his voice and
speaking through the open door, "I will take it." And he came out again.

The girl's eyes sparkled. "If you think," she cried, her temper showing
in her face, "that that will do you any good----"

"I don't think," he said, cutting her short, "I take it. Your mother
undertook that I should have the first vacant room. Tissot resigned this
room this morning. I take it. I consider myself fortunate--most
fortunate."

Her colour came and went. "If you were a boor," she cried, "you could
not behave worse!"

"Then I am a boor!"

"But you will find," she continued, "that you cannot force your way
into a house like this. You will find that such things are not done in
Geneva. I will have you put out!"

"Why?" he asked, craftily resorting to argument. "When I ask only to
remain and be quiet? Why, when you have, or to-night will have, an empty
room? Why, when you lodged Tissot, will you not lodge me? In what am I
worse than Tissot or Grio," he continued, "or--I forget the other's
name? Have I the plague, or the falling sickness? Am I Papist or Arian?
What have I done that I may not lie in Geneva, may not lie in your
house? Tell me, give me a reason, show me the cause, and I will go."

Her anger had died down while he spoke and while she listened. Instead,
the lowness of heart to which she had yielded when she thought herself
alone before the hearth showed in every line of her figure. "You do not
know what you are doing," she said sadly. And she turned and looked
through the casement. "You do not know what you are asking, or to what
you are coming."

"Did Tissot know when he came?"

"You are not Tissot," she answered in a low tone, "and may fare worse."

"Or better," he answered gaily. "And at worst----"

"Worse or better you will repent it," she retorted. "You will repent it
bitterly!"

"I may," he answered. "But at least you never shall."

She turned and looked at him at that; looked at him as if the curtain of
apathy fell from her eyes and she saw him for the first time as he was,
a young man, upright and not uncomely. She looked at him with her mind
as well as her eyes, and seeing felt curiosity about him, pity for him,
felt her own pulses stirred by his presence and his aspect. A faint
colour, softer than the storm-flag which had fluttered there a minute
before, rose to her cheeks; her lips began to tremble. He feared that
she was going to weep, and "That is settled!" he said cheerfully.
"Good!