“But first, I feel obliged to admit that it was money I wanted, that I had to have.  Not for myself.  I lack nothing and could have more if I wished.  Father has never limited his generosity in any matter affecting myself, but—­” She drew a deep breath and, coming out of the shadow, lifted a face to him so changed from its usual expression as to make him start.  “I have a cause at heart—­one which should appeal to my father and does not; and for that purpose I have sacrificed myself, in many ways, though—­ though I have not disliked my work up to this last attempt.  Not really.  I want to be honest and so must admit that much.  I have even gloried (quietly and all by myself, of course) over the solution of a mystery which no one else seemed able to penetrate.  I am made that way.  I have known it ever since—­but that is a story all by itself.  Some day I may tell it to you, but not now.”

“No, not now.”  The emphasis sent the colour into her cheek but did not relieve his pallor.  “Miss Strange, I have always felt, even in my worst days, that the man who for selfish ends brought a woman under the shadow of his own unhappy reputation was a man to be despised.  And I think so still, and yet—­and yet—­nothing in the world but your own word or look can hold me back now from telling you that I love you—­love you notwithstanding my unworthy past, my scarring memories, my all but blasted hopes.  I do not expect any response; you are young; you are beautiful; you are gifted with every grace; but to speak,—­to say over and over again, ‘I love you, I love you!’ eases my heart and makes my future more endurable.  Oh, do not look at me like that unless—­ unless—­”

But the bright head did not fall, nor the tender gaze falter; and driven out of himself, Roger Upjohn was about to step passionately forward, when, seized by fresh compunction, he hoarsely cried: 

“It is not right.  The balance dips too much my way.  You bring me everything.  I can give you nothing but what you already possess abundance—­love, and money.  Besides, your father—­”

She interrupted him with a glance at once arch and earnest.

“I had a talk with Father this morning.  He came to my room, and—­ and it was very near being serious.  Someone had told him I was doing things on the sly which he had better look into; and of course he asked questions and—­and I answered them.  He wasn’t pleased—­in fact he was very displeased,—­I don’t think we can blame him for that—­but we had no open break for I love him dearly, for all my opposing ways, and he saw that, and it helped, though he did say after I had given my promise to stop where I was and never to take up such work again, that—­” here she stole a shy look at the face bent so eagerly towards her—­“that I had lost my social status and need never hope now for the attentions of—­of—­well, of such men as he admires and puts faith in.  So you see,” her dimples all showing, “that I am not such a very good match for an Upjohn of Massachusetts, even if he has a reputation to recover and an honourable name to achieve.  The scale hangs more evenly than you think.”