“Oh”—­a name she could not speak even there went through her heart in two big throbs—­“if only we had never met!  I never set so much as a smile to snare you, you who have snared me.  Can Connie be right?  Have you felt my thraldom, and are you trying to throw me off?  Then I must help you do it.  Though I covet your love more than life I will not tether it.  Oh, it’s because I so covet that I will not tether it!  With the last gem from my own throat will I rather help you go free if you want to go.  God of mercy, what else can I do!”

In grave exultancy Flora moved up and down the drawing-room enjoying her tread on its rich carpet.  She would have liked to flit back to the side of yonder great chimney breast, the spot where she had been surprised while sounding the panel work, but this was no time for postponable risks.  She halted to regale her critical eye on the goodly needlework of a folding-screen whose joints, she noticed, could not be peered through, and in a pretty, bird-like way stole a glance behind it.  Nothing there.  She stepped to a front window and stood toying with the perfect round of her silken belt.  How slimly neat it was.  Yet beneath the draperies it so trimly confined lay hid, in a few notes of “city money,” the proceeds of the gold she had just reported blown into thin air with the old inventor—­who had never seen a glimmer of it.  Not quite the full amount was there; it had been sadly nibbled.  But now by dear Anna’s goodness (ahem!) the shortage could be restored, the entire hundreds handed back to Captain Kincaid, and a snug sum be retained “for rent and bread.”  Yet after all—­as long as good stories came easy—­why hand anything back—­to anybody—­even to—­him?

He!  In her heart desire and odium beat strangely together.  Fine as martial music he was, yet gallingly out of her rhythm, above her key.  Liked her much, too.  Yes, for charms she had; any fool could be liked that way.  What she craved was to be liked for charms she had not, graces she scorned; and because she could not be sure how much of that sort she was winning she tingled with heat against him—­and against Anna—­Anna giver of guns—­who had the money to give guns—­till her bosom rose and fell.  But suddenly her musing ceased, her eyes shone.

A mounted officer galloped into the driveway, a private soldier followed, and the private was her brother.  Now they came close.  The leader dismounted, passed his rein to Charlie and sprang up the veranda steps.  Flora shrank softly from the window and at the same moment Anna reentered gayly, showing a glitter of values twice all expectation: 

“If these are not enough—­” She halted with lips apart.  Flora had made sign toward the front door, and now with a moan of fond protest covered the gem-laden hand in both her palms and pushed it from her.

“Take them back,” she whispered, yet held it fast, “’tis too late!  There—­the door-bell!  ’Tis Hilary Kincaid!  All is too late, take them back!”