But oh, the blow for her!  In her youthful enthusiasm she had always, from the first time they had encountered one another, been sensitively aware of this tall, clean-cut, attractive young fellow.  And by and by she learned his name and asked her sisters about him, and when she heard of his recent ruin and withdrawal from the gatherings of his kind her youth flushed to its romantic roots, warming all within her toward this splendid and radiant young man who lived so nobly, so proudly aloof.  And then—­miracle of Manhattan!—­he had proved his courage before her dazed eyes—­rising suddenly out of the very earth to save her from a fate which her eager desire painted blacker every time she embellished the incident.  And she decorated the memory of it every day.

And now!  Here, beside her, was this prince among men, her champion, beaten to his ornamental knees by Fate, and contemplating a miserable, uncertain career to keep his godlike body from actual starvation.  And she—­she with more money than even she knew what to do with, powerless to aid him, prevented from flinging open her check book and bidding him to write and write till he could write no more.

A memory—­a thought crept in.  Where had she heard his name connected with her father’s name?  In Ophir Steel?  Certainly; and was it not this young man’s father who had laid the foundation for her father’s fortune?  She had heard some such thing, somewhere.

He said:  “I had no idea of boring anybody—­you least of all—­with my woes.  Indeed, I haven’t any sorrows now, because to-day I received my first encouragement; and no doubt I’ll be a huge success.  Only—­I thought it best to make it clear why it would do me considerable damage just now if you should write.”

“Tell me,” she said tremulously, “is there anything—­anything I can do to—­to balance the deep debt of gratitude I owe you——­”

“What debt?” he asked, astonished.  “Oh! that?  Why, that is no debt—­ except that I was happy—­perfectly and serenely happy to have had that chance to—­to hear your voice——­”

“You were brave,” she said hastily.  “You may make as light of it as you please, but I know.”

“So do I,” he laughed, enchanted with the rising color in her cheeks.

“No, you don’t; you don’t know how I felt—­how afraid I was to show how deeply—­deeply I felt.  I felt it so deeply that I did not even tell my sisters,” she added naively.

“Your sisters?”

“Yes; you know them.”  And as he remained silent she said:  “Do you not know who I am?  Do you not even know my name?”

He shook his head, laughing.

“I’d have given all I had to know; but, of course, I could not ask the servants!”

Surprise, disappointment, hurt pride that he had had no desire to know gave quick place to a comprehension that set a little thrill tingling her from head to foot.  His restraint was the nicest homage ever rendered her; she saw that instantly; and the straight look she gave him out of her clear eyes took his breath away for a second.