ffery.

"I see. And you saved my life once; so perhaps you have rights over
me."

"That would be damnable!" he cried. "Such a thought has never entered my
head."

"It is firmly fixed in mine," said Doria.

She sat for a while, with knitted brows deep in thought. Jaffery stood
dejectedly by the fire, his hands in his pockets. Presently she rose.

"Besides saving my life and doing for me the things I know, there must
be many things you've done for me that I never heard of--like this
sacrifice of the Persian expedition. Liosha was right. I ought to go on
my knees to you. But I can't very well do that, can I?"

"No," replied Jaffery, scrabbling at whiskers and beard. "That would be
stupid. You mustn't worry about me at all. Whatever I did for you, my
dear, I'd do a thousand times over again!"

"You must have your reward, such as it is. God knows you have earned
it."

"Don't talk about rights or rewards," said he. "As I've said repeatedly
this afternoon, I've forfeited even your thanks."

"And I've said I forgive you--if there's anything to forgive," she
smiled, just a little wearily. "So that is wiped out. All the rest
remains. Let us bury all past unhappiness between us two."

"I wish we could. But how?"

"There is a way."

"What is that?"

"You make things somewhat hard for me. You might guess. But I'll tell
you. Liosha again was right. . . . If you want me still, I will marry
you. Not quite yet; but, say, in six months' time. You are a
great-hearted, loyal man"--she continued bravely, faltering under his
gaze--"and I will learn to love you and will devote my life to making
you happy."

She glanced downwards with averted head, awaiting some outcry of
gladness, surrendering herself to the quick clasp of strong arms. But
no outcry came, and no arms clasped. She glanced up, and met a stricken
look in the man's eyes.

For Jaffery could not find a word to utter. A chill crept about his
heart and his blood became as water. He could not move; a nightmare
horror of dismay held him in its grip. The inconceivable had happened.
He no longer desired her. The woman who had haunted his thoughts for
over two years, for whom he had made quixotic sacrifices, for whom he
had made a mat of his great body so that she should tread stony paths
without hurt to her delicate feet, was his now for the taking--nobly
self-offered--and with all the world as an apanage he could not have
taken her. The phenomenon of sex he could no