personality, in a body of athletic grace--a man-beauty.

"Have you seen Jethro Fawe lately?" he asked. "Not since"--she was
going to say not since the morning her father had passed the sentence of
the patrin upon him; but she paused in time. "Not since everything
happened to you," she added presently.

"He knows the game is up," Ingolby remarked with forced cheerfulness.
"He won't be asking for any more."

"It's time for your milk and brandy," she said suddenly, emotion
subsiding and a look of purpose coming into her face. She poured out the
liquid, and gave the glass into his hand. His fingers touched hers.

"Your hands are cold," she said to him. "Cold hands, warm heart," he
chattered.

A curious, wilful, rebellious look came into her eyes. "I shouldn't
have thought it in your case," she said, and with sudden resolve turned
towards the door. "I'll send Madame Bulteel," she added. "I'm going for
a walk."

She had betrayed herself so much, had shown so recklessly what she felt,
and yet, yet why did he not--she did not know what she wanted him to do.
It was all a great confusion. Vaguely she realized what had been working
in him, but yet the knowledge was dim indeed. She was a woman. In her
heart of hearts she knew that he did care for her, and yet in her heart
of hearts she denied that he cared.

She was suddenly angry with herself, angry with him, the poor blind man,