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For an instant he looked at her, and an odd thrill of pity ran through her for his humiliation.

She said nothing. She had no words in which to express herself. Moreover, her eyes were suddenly full of unaccountable tears. She could not have trusted her voice.

After a moment he resumed. “There is only one thing left to say. In two days we shall be in British waters. I will land you wherever you wish. But you shall not go from me to earn your own living. You will accept–you shall accept”–she heard the stubborn note she had come to know so well in his voice–“sufficient from me to make you independent for the rest of your life. Yes, from me, mademoiselle!” He looked her straight in the eyes with something of his old arrogance. “You can refuse, of course. No doubt you will refuse. But I can compel you. If you will not have it as a gift, you shall have it as–a bequest.”

He ceased, but he continued to sit with his eyes upon her, ready, she knew, to beat down any and every objection she might raise.

She did not speak. She was for the moment too much surprised for speech; but as his meaning dawned upon her, something that was greater than either surprise or pity took possession of her, holding her silent. She only, after several moments, rose and stood with her face turned from him, watching through the porthole the waves that leaped by, all green and amber, in the light of sunset.

“You understand me clearly, Mademoiselle Stephanie?” he asked at length, in a voice that came harshly through the silence.

She moved slightly, but she did not turn.

“I have never understood you, monsieur,” she made answer, her voice very low.

He jerked his shoulders impatiently.

“At least you understand me on this point,” he said curtly.

She was silent. At length:

“But you do not understand me,” she said.

“Better than you fancy, mademoiselle,” he answered bitterly. “I do not think your feelings where I am concerned have ever been very complicated.”

Again slightly she moved without looking round.

“I wish you would tell your man to go,” she said.

“Mademoiselle?” There was a note of surprise in the query.

“Tell him to go!” she reiterated, with nervous vehemence.

There fell an abrupt silence. Then she heard an imperious snap of the fingers from Pierre, followed instantly by the steward’s retiring footsteps.

She waited till she heard them no longer, then slowly she turned. Pierre had not moved from his chair. He was gripping the arms as before. She stood with her back to the light, thankful for the dimness that obscured her face.

“I–I have something to say to you, monsieur,” she said.

“I am listening, mademoiselle,” he responded briefly, not raising his eyes.

“Ah, but you must help me,” she said, and her voice shook a little. “It–it is no easy thing that I have to say.”

He made a fierce movement of unrest.

“How can I help you? I have given you your freedom. What more can I do?”

“You can spare me a moment’s kindness,” she answered gently. “You may be angry with yourself, but you need not be angry with me also.”

“I am not angry with you,” he responded half sullenly. “But I can bear no trifling, I warn you. I am not my own master. If you wish to secure yourself from further insult, you will be wise to leave me alone.”

“And if not?” she questioned slowly. “If–for instance–I do not feel myself insulted by what happened last night?”

He glanced up at that so suddenly that she felt as if something pierced her.

“Then,” he rejoined harshly, “you are a very strange woman, Mademoiselle Stephanie.”

“I begin to think I am,” she said, with a rather piteous smile. “Yet, for all that, I will not be trifled with either. A compact such as ours can only be cancelled by mutual consent. I think you are rather inclined to forget that.”