don't you give me--a man's drink?"

"Because I think this will suit you better," Merryon said; and he spoke
with a gentleness that was oddly at variance with the frown that drew
his brows.

The dark eyes stared up at him, scared and defiant, for the passage of
several seconds; then, very suddenly, the tension went out of the white,
pinched face. It screwed up like the face of a hurt child, and all in a
moment the little, huddled figure collapsed on the floor at his feet,
while sobs--a woman's quivering piteous sobs--filled the silence of the
room.

Merryon's own face was a curious mixture of pity and constraint as he
set down the glass and stooped forward over the shaking, anguished form.

"Look here, child!" he said, and whatever else was in his voice it
certainly held none of the hardness habitual to it. "You're
upset--unnerved. Don't cry so! Whatever you've been through, it's over.
No one can make you go back. Do you understand? You're free!"

He laid his hand, with the clumsiness of one little accustomed to
console, upon the bowed black head.

"Don't!" he said again. "Don't cry so! What the devil does it matter?
You're safe enough with me. I'm not the sort of bounder to give you
away."

She drew a little nearer to him. "You--you're not a bounder--at all,"
she assured him between her sobs. "You're just--a gentleman. That's what