She continued to look at him, and he looked at her now, squarely; a strange calm descended upon him.

“And that,” he said, “is all I heard, or knew, until this morning, when I saw in the paper,” dreamily, “he was coming back in the fall for—­”

The color concentrated with sudden swift brightness in her cheeks.  “You saw that—­any one—­every one saw—­Oh—­”

She started to speak further, then bit her lip, while the lace stirred beneath the white throat.  Mr. Heatherbloom had not followed what she said, was cognizant only of her anger.  Her eyes were fastened on something beyond him, but returned soon, very soon.

“Oh,” she said, “I might have known—­if I let you stay, through pity, you would—­”

“Pity!” said Mr. Heatherbloom.

“Because I did not want to turn you out into the street—­”

She spoke the words fiercely.  Mr. Heatherbloom seemed now quite impervious to stab or thrust.

“I permitted you to remain for”—­she stopped—­“remembering what you once were; who your people were!  What”—­flinging the words at him—­“you might have been.  Instead—­of what you are!”

Mr. Heatherbloom gazed now without wincing; an unnatural absence of feeling seemed to have passed over his features, making them almost mask-like.  It was as if he stood in some new pellucid atmosphere of his own.

“Of course,” he said, as half speaking to himself, “I must have earned my salary, or Miss Van Rolsen wouldn’t have retained me.  So I am not a recipient of charity.  Therefore,”—­did the word suggest far-away school-boy lessons on syllogisms and sophistries—­“I have no right to feel offended in that you let me remain, you say, ‘through pity’, when as a matter of fact it was impossible for me to tender my resignation, in view of—­” He finished the rest of a rather involved logical conclusion to himself, taking his hand out of his pocket now and passing it lightly, in a somewhat dragging fashion, over his eyes.  Then he gazed momentarily beyond, as if he saw something appertaining to the “auld lang syne”, but recalled himself with a start to the beautiful face, the threads of gold, the violet eyes.

“You will see to it now, of course”—­his manner became brisk, almost businesslike—­“that I, as a factor, am eliminated here?  That, I may conclude, is your intention?”

“Perhaps,” said the girl, a sibyl for intentness now, “you would prefer to go?  To be asked to!  You would find the streets”—­with swift discerning contempt—­“more profitable for your purpose than here, where you are known.”

“Perhaps,” assented Mr. Heatherbloom.  He spoke quite airily; then suddenly stiffened.

At his words, the sight of him as he uttered them, she came abruptly yet nearer; her breath swept and seemed to scorch his cheek.

“I should think,” she said, “you would be ashamed to live!”

“Ashamed?” he began; then stopped.  There was no need of speaking further for she had gone.