strange, half-evil, half-tender sensation which had given its acrid
flavour to so many days, which had made her appear tragic and
promising, pitiful and provoking. That was all over.

"Your father picked it up," I said, thinking she may just as well
be told of the fact.

"I am not afraid of papa--by himself," she declared scornfully.

"Oh! It's only in conjunction with his disreputable associates,
strangers, the 'riff-raff of Europe' as your charming aunt or
great-aunt says--men like me, for instance--that you--"

"I am not afraid of you," she snapped out.

"That's because you don't know that I am now doing business with
your father. Yes, I am in fact doing exactly what he wants me to
do. I've broken my promise to you. That's the sort of man I am.
And now--aren't you afraid? If you believe what that dear, kind,
truthful old lady says you ought to be."

It was with unexpected modulated softness that the affirmed:

"No. I am not afraid." She hesitated. . . . "Not now."

"Quite right. You needn't be. I shall not see you again before I
go to sea." I rose and stood near her chair. "But I shall often
think of you in this old garden, passing under the trees over
there, walking between these gorgeous flower-beds. You must love
this garden--"