like Christine, but she had admiration of ability, and was obedient to
the charm of temperament. Whenever Ferrol had met her he had lavished
little attentions on her, had said things to her that carried weight far
beyond their intention. She had been pleased at the time, but they had
had no permanent effect.

Now everything he said had a different influence: she felt for the first
time that it was not easy to look into his eyes, and as if she never
could again without betraying--she knew not what.

So they sat there, he talking, she listening and questioning now and
then. She had placed the bottle of liqueur and the seed-cakes at his
elbow on the windowsill; and as if mechanically, he poured out a
glassful, and after a little time, still another, and at last, apparently
unconsciously, poured her out one also, and handed it to her. She shook
her head; he still held the glass poised; her eyes met his; she made a
feeble sort of protest, then took the glass and drank off the liqueur in
little sips.

"Gad, that puts fat on the bones, and gives the gay heart!" he said.
"Doesn't it, though?"

She laughed quietly. Her nature was warm, and she had the animal-like
fondness for physical ease and content.

"It's as if there wasn't another stroke of work to do in the world," she
answered, and sat contentedly back in her chair, the strawberries in her
lap. Her fingers, stained with red, lay beside the bowl. All the
strings of conscious duty were loose, and some of them were flying. The
bumble-bee that flew in at the door and boomed about the room contributed