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They dined together at a roof garden that evening, the music was particularly and surprisingly good, and what surprised him even more was that she knew it and spoke of it. And continued speaking of music, he not interrupting.

Reticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned now something of them–and inferred more; nothing unusual–a musical career determined upon, death intervening dragging over her isolation the steel meshes of destitution–the necessity for self-support, a friend who knew a painter who employed models–not anything unusual, not even dramatic.

He nodded as she ended:

“Have you saved anything?”

“A hundred dollars.”

“That’s fine.”

She smiled, then sighed unconsciously.

“You are thinking,” he said, “that youth is flying.”

She smiled wistfully.

“Youth is the time to study. You were thinking that, too.”

She nodded.

“You could have married.”

“Why?” she asked, troubled.

“To obtain the means for a musical education.”

She gazed at him in amazement, then: “I could go out on the street, too, as far as that is concerned. It would be no more disgraceful.”

“Folk-ways sanction self-sale, when guaranteed by the clergy,” he said. She turned her head and he saw the pure, cold profile against the golden table-lamp, and he saw something else under the palms beyond–Graylock’s light eyes riveted upon them both.

“You know,” he said, under his breath, “that I shall not marry you. But–would you care to begin your studies again?”

There was a long silence: She remained with face partly averted until the orchestra ceased. Then she turned and looked at him, and he saw her lip tremble.

“I had not thought you meant to ask me–that. I do not quite understand what you mean.”

“I care enough for you to wish to help you. May I?”

“I was not sure you cared–enough–“

“Do you–for me?”

“Before I say that I do–care for you–” she began, tremulously–“tell me that I have nothing to fear–“

Neither spoke. Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant man who stared back at him.

Presently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childlike beauty of her.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he said. “Love is no more wonderful than hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is less fierce, and not as strong.”

“What!” she whispered, bewildered at the sinister change in him.

“And I want to tell you another thing. I am alone in the world. What I have, I have devised to you–in case I step out–suddenly–“

He paused, hesitated, then:

“Also I desire you to hear something else,” he went on. “This is the proper time for you to hear it, I think–now–to-night–“

He lifted his blazing eyes and looked at the other man.

“There was a woman,” he said–“She happened to be my wife. Also there was my closest friend: and myself. The comedy was cast. Afterward she died–abroad. I believe he was there at the time–Kept up a semblance–But he never married her…. And I do not intend to marry–you.”

After a moment: “And that,” she whispered, “is why you once said to me that I should have let you alone.”

“Did I say that to you?”

“Yes.” She looked up at him, straight into his eyes: “But if you care for me–I do not regret that I did not let you alone.”

“I shall not marry you.”

Her lip trembled but she smiled.

“That is nothing new to me,” she said. “Only one man has offered that.”

“Why didn’t you take him?” he asked, with an ugly laugh.

“I couldn’t. I cared for you.”

“And now,” he said, “are you afraid of me?”

“Yes–a little.”

He leaned forward suddenly, “You’d better steer clear of me!” Her startled eyes beheld in him a change as swift as his words.

“Fair warning!” he added: “look out for yourself.” Everything that was brutal in him; everything ruthless and violent had marred his features so that all in a moment the mouth had grown ugly and a hard, bruised look stamped the pallid muscles of his features and twitched at them.

“You’re taking chances from now on,” he said. “I told you once to let me alone. You’d better do it now. And–” he stared at the distant man–“I told you that hate is more vital than love. It is. I’ve waited a long time to strike. Even now it isn’t in me to do it as I have meant to do it. And so I tell you to keep away from me; and I’ll strike in the old-fashioned way, and end it–to-night.”