"Surely you can forgive me, a desperate man, almost anything?"

"I do not understand," said Virginia, with a palpable effort.

Ned Trent leaned forward until his eager face was almost at her
shoulder.

"Perhaps not," he urged; "I cannot ask you to try. But suppose,
mademoiselle, you were in my case. Suppose your eyes--like mine--have
rested on nothing but a howling wilderness for dear heaven knows how
long; you come at last in sight of real houses, real grass, real
dooryard gardens just ready to blossom in the spring, real food, real
beds, real books, real men with whom to exchange the sensible word,
and something more, mademoiselle--a woman such as one dreams of in the
long forest nights under the stars. And you know that while others,
the lucky ones, may stay to enjoy it all, you, the unfortunate, are
condemned to leave it at any moment for _la Longue Traverse_. Would
not you, too, be bitter, mademoiselle? Would not you too mock and
sneer? Think, mademoiselle, I have not even the little satisfaction of
rousing men's anger. I can insult them as I will, but they turn aside
in pity, saying one to another: 'Let us pleasure him in this, poor
fellow, for he is about to take _la Longue Traverse_.' That is why
your father accepts calmly from me what he would not from another."

Virginia sat bolt upright on the divan, her hands clasped in her lap,
her wonderful black eyes looking straight out before her, trying to
avoid her companion's insistent gaze. His attention was fixed on her
mobile and changing countenance, but he marked with evident
satisfaction Galen Albret's growing uneasiness. This was evidenced