at the irrevocable acts in his life that could not be altered
nor dug up nor hidden away. They marked the road he had
trodden like heavy milestones, telling his story to every
passer-by. She could read them, as everyone else could read
them. He had wasted his substance, he had bartered his
birthright for a moment's pleasure; there was no one so low
and despicable who could not call him comrade, to whom he had
not given himself without reserve. There was nothing left,
and now the one thing he had ever wanted had come, and had
found him like a bankrupt, his credit wasted and his coffers
empty. He had placed himself at the beck and call of every
idle man and woman in Paris, and he was as common as the great
clock-face that hangs above the boulevards.

Miss Carson's feelings toward Kalonay were not of her own
choosing, and had passed through several stages. When they
had first met she had thought it most sad that so careless and
unprincipled a person should chance to hold so important a
part in the task she had set herself to do. She knew his
class only by hearsay, but she placed him in it, and,
accordingly, at once dismissed him as a person from her mind.
Kalonay had never shown her that he loved her, except by those
signs which any woman can read and which no man can conceal;
but he did not make love to her, and it was that which first
prepossessed her in his favor. One or two other men who knew
of her fortune, and to whom she had given as little
encouragement as she had to Kalonay, had been less
considerate. But his attitude toward her was always that of a
fellow-worker in the common cause. He treated her with a
gratitude for the help she meant to give his people which much