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“May I ask WHY you did it then?” said Miss Trotter, with an acerbity which she put on to hide a vague, tantalizing consciousness.

“You would not believe me if I told you, and you would hate me if you did.” He stopped, and, locking his fingers together, threw his hands over the back of the sofa and leaned toward her. “You never liked me, Miss Trotter,” he said more quietly; “not from the first! From the day that I was brought to the hotel, when you came to see me, I could see that you looked upon me as a foolish, petted boy. When I tried to catch your eye, you looked at the doctor, and took your speech from him. And yet I thought I had never seen a woman so great and perfect as you were, and whose sympathy I longed so much to have. You may not believe me, but I thought you were a queen, for you were the first lady I had ever seen, and you were so different from the other girls I knew, or the women who had been kind to me. You may laugh, but it’s the truth I’m telling you, Miss Trotter!”

He had relapsed completely into his old pleading, boyish way–it had struck her even as he had pleaded to her for Frida!

“I knew you didn’t like me that day you came to change the bandages. Although every touch of your hands seemed to ease my pain, you did it so coldly and precisely; and although I longed to keep you there with me, you scarcely waited to take my thanks, but left me as if you had only done your duty to a stranger. And worst of all,” he went on more bitterly, “the doctor knew it too–guessed how I felt toward you, and laughed at me for my hopelessness! That made me desperate, and put me up to act the fool. I did! Yes, Miss Trotter; I thought it mighty clever to appear to be in love with Frida, and to get him to ask to have her attend me regularly. And when you simply consented, without a word or thought about it and me, I knew I was nothing to you.”

Miss Trotter felt a sudden thrill. The recollection of Dr. Duchesne’s strange scrutiny of her, of her own mistake, which she now knew might have been the truth–flashed across her confused consciousness in swift corroboration of his words. It was a DOUBLE revelation to her; for what else was the meaning of this subtle, insidious, benumbing sweetness that was now creeping over her sense and spirit and holding her fast. She felt she ought to listen no longer–to speak–to say something–to get up–to turn and confront him coldly–but she was powerless. Her reason told her that she had been the victim of a trick–that having deceived her once, he might be doing so again; but she could not break the spell that was upon her, nor did she want to. She must know the culmination of this confession, whose preamble thrilled her so strangely.

“The girl was kind and sympathetic,” he went on, “but I was not so great a fool as not to know that she was a flirt and accustomed to attention. I suppose it was in my desperation that I told my brother, thinking he would tell you, as he did. He would not tell me what you said to him, except that you seemed to be indignant at the thought that I was only flirting with Frida. Then I resolved to speak with you myself–and I did. I know it was a stupid, clumsy contrivance. It never seemed so stupid before I spoke to you. It never seemed so wicked as when you promised to help me, and your eyes shone on me for the first time with kindness. And it never seemed so hopeless as when I found you touched with my love for another. You wonder why I kept up this deceit until you promised. Well, I had prepared the bitter cup myself–I thought I ought to drink it to the dregs.”