Yes--he had achieved all this. And he had done infinitely
more. He had awakened in her heart a sense of loneliness and
of need for some one in whom she might confide.

He had done all this, had Gavin Brice. And, though he was
not a vain man, yet he knew he had done it cleverly. But,
somehow--even as he waited to see if the hour for full
confidences were indeed ripe--he was not able to feel the thrill
of exultation which should belong to the winner of a hard-fought
duel. Instead, to his amazement, he was aware of a growing sense
of shame, of disgust at having used such weapons against any woman,
--especially against this girl whose whiteness of soul and of
purpose he could no longer doubt.

Then, through the silence and above the soft lap-lap-lap of
water against the idly drifting boat's side, Claire drew a
deep breath. She threw back her drooping shoulders and sat
up, facing the man. And in the dusk, Gavin could see the
flash of resolve in her great eyes.

"Yes!" she said, impulsively. "Yes. I'll tell you. If it
is wrong for me to tell, then let it be wrong. I'm sick of
mystery and secrets and signals and suspense, and--oh, I'm
sick of it all! And it's--it's splendid of you to want to
help me, after what has happened to you through meeting me!
It's your right to know."

She paused for breath. And again Gavin wondered at his own
inability to feel a single throb of gladness at having come so
triumphantly to the end of this particular road. Glumly, he