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With a resolute effort he spoke.

“But you were scarcely more than a child,” he said. “It–sure, it couldn’t have been as bad as that?”

At the sound of the pain in his voice she slowly turned.

“It was much worse than that,” she said. “While it lasted, it was intolerable. There were times when I thought it would drive me crazy. But you–you were always there, and I think the sight of you kept me sane. I hated you so. I had to show you that I didn’t care.”

Again he heard in her voice that tremor that was not of fear.

“As long as my husband lived,” she went on, “I kept up the miserable farce. As you know, we never loved each other. Then he died, and I found I couldn’t bear it any longer. There was no reason why I should. I went away. I should never have seen you again, only Mrs. Chester would take no refusal. And I had put it all away from me by that time. I felt it did not greatly matter if we did meet. Nothing seemed of much importance till that day I saw you on the polo ground, carrying all before you–Achilles triumphant! That day I began to hate you again.” A faint smile drew the corners of her mouth. “I think you suspected it,” she said, “but your suspicions were soon lulled to rest. Did it never cross your mind to wonder how we came to pair on that night of the river picnic? I accused you of cheating, do you remember? And you were quite indignant.” A glimmer of the old gay mischief shone for a fleeting second through her tragedy. “That was the first move in the game,” she said. “At least you never suspected me of that.”

“No; you had me there.” There was a ring of sternness in Hone’s voice. “So that was the beginning?” he said.

She nodded.

“And it would have been the end also, if you would have suffered it. For that very night I ceased to hate you.” A faint flush tinged her pale face. “I would have let you off,” she said. “I didn’t want to go on. But you would not have it so. You came after me. You wouldn’t leave me alone, even though I warned you–I warned you that I wasn’t worth your devotion. And so”–again her voice trembled–“you had to have your lesson after all.”

“And do you know what it has taught me?”

Again there sounded in his voice that new mastery that had so strangely overwhelmed her.

She shrank a little as it reached her, and turned her face aside. “I can guess,” she said.

“And is it good at guessing that you are?”

He drew nearer to her with the words, but he did not offer to touch her.

She stood motionless, her head bent lest he should see, and understand, the piteous quivering of her lips. With immense effort she made reply:

“It has taught you to hate and despise me, as–as I deserve.”

“Faith!” he said. “You think that–honestly now?”

The mastery had all gone out of his voice. It was soft with that caressing quality she knew of old–that tenderness, half-humorous, half-persuasive, that had won her heart so long, so long ago. She did not answer him–for she could not.

He waited for the space of a score of seconds, standing close to her, yet still not touching her, looking down in silence at the proud dark head abased before him.

At last: “It’s myself that’ll have to tell you, after all,” he said gently, “for sure it’s the only way to make you understand. It’s taught me that we can both be winners, dear, if we play the game squarely, just as we have both been losers all these weary years. But we will have to be partners from this day forward. So just put your little hand in mine, and it’ll be all right, mavourneen! Pat’ll understand!”

She moved at that–moved sharply, convulsively, passionately. For a moment her eyes met his; for a moment she seemed on the verge of amazed questioning, even of vehement protest.

But–perhaps the grey eyes that looked straight and steadfast into her own made speech seem unnecessary–for she only whispered, “St. Patrick!” in a voice that trembled and broke.

And “Princess! My Princess!” was all he answered as he took her into his arms.