“You have a fine instinct,” approved the Factor.

“It is one of my valued possessions,” rejoined the young man, insolently.  He struck a match, and by its light selected a cigarette.

“I do not myself use tobacco in this room,” suggested the older speaker.

“I am curious to learn the limits of your forbearance,” replied the younger, proceeding to smoke.

He threw back his head and regarded his opponent with an open challenge, daring him to become angry.  The match went out.

Virginia, who had listened in growing anger and astonishment, unable longer to refrain from defending the dignity of her usually autocratic father, although he seemed little disposed to defend himself, now intervened from her dark corner on the divan.

“Is the journey then so long, sir,” she asked composedly, “that it at once inspires such anticipations—­and such bitterness?”

In an instant the man was on his feet, hat in hand, and the cigarette had described a fiery curve into the empty hearth.

“I beg your pardon, sincerely,” he cried, “I did not know you were here!”

“You might better apologize to my father,” replied Virginia.

The young man stepped forward and without asking permission, lighted one of the tall lamps.

“The lady of the guns!” he marvelled softly to himself.

He moved across the room, looking down on her inscrutably, while she looked up at him in composed expectation of an apology—­and Galen Albret sat motionless, in the shadow of his great arm-chair.  But after a moment her calm attention broke down.  Something there was about this man that stirred her emotions—­whether of curiosity, pity, indignation, or a slight defensive fear she was not introspective enough to care to inquire.  And yet the sensation was not altogether unpleasant, and, as at the guns that afternoon, a certain portion of her consciousness remained in sympathy with whatever it was of mysterious attraction he represented to her.  In him she felt the dominant, as a wild creature of the woods instinctively senses the master and drops its eyes.  Resentment did not leave her, but over it spread a film of confusion that robbed it of its potency.  In him, in his mood, in his words, in his manner, was something that called out in direct appeal the more primitive instincts hitherto dormant beneath her sense of maidenhood, so that even at this vexed moment of conscious opposition, her heart was ranging itself on his side.  Overpoweringly the feeling swept her that she was not acting in accordance with her sense of fitness.  She knew she should strike, but was unable to give due force to the blow.  In the confusion of such a discovery, her eyelids fluttered and fell.  And he saw, and, understanding his power, dropped swiftly beside her on the broad divan.

“You must pardon me, mademoiselle,” he begun, his voice sinking to a depth of rich music singularly caressing.  “To you I may seem to have small excuses, but when a man is vouchsafed a glimpse of heaven only to be cast out the next instant into hell, he is not always particular in the choice of words.”