“My arm is worse,” she said, quickly covering her shoulder again.  “I need not show you that.  My face was burned, too, but scarcely at all.  To this day, I do not know how I escaped.  I must have thrown up my arm instinctively to shield my face.  See, there are no scars.”

“I see,” murmured Ralph; “and what of him?”

The dark eyes gleamed indescribably.  “What of him?” she asked, with assumed lightness.  “Why, he was not hurt at all.  I saved him from disfigurement, if not from death.  I bear the scars; he goes free.”

“I know,” said Ralph, “but why were you not married?  All his life and love would be little enough to give in return for that.”

Miss Evelina fixed her deep eyes upon Anthony Dexter’s son.  In her voice there was no hint of faltering.

“I never saw him again,” she said, “until twenty-five years afterward, and then I was veiled.  He went away.”

“Went away!” repeated Ralph, incredulously.  “Miss Evelina, what do you mean?”

“What I said,” she replied.  “He went away.  He came once to the hospital.  As it happened, there was another girl there, named Evelyn Grey, burned by acid, and infinitely worse than I. The two names became confused.  He was told that I would be disfigured for life—­that every feature was destroyed except my sight.  That was enough for him.  He asked no more questions, but simply went away.”

“Coward!” cried Ralph, his face white.  “Cur!”

Miss Evelina’s eyes gleamed with subtle triumph.  “What would you?” she asked unemotionally.  “He told me that day of the accident that it was my soul he loved, and not my body, but at the test, he failed.  Men usually fail women, do they not, in anything that puts their love to the test?  He went away.  In a year, he was married, and he has a son.”

“A son!” repeated Ralph.  “What a heritage of disgrace for a son!  Does the boy know?”

There was a significant silence.  “I do not think his father has told him,” said Evelina, with forced calmness.

“If he had,” muttered Ralph, his hands clenched and his teeth set, “his son must have struck him dead where he stood.  To accept that from a woman, and then to go away!”

“What would you?” asked Evelina again.  A curious, tigerish impulse was taking definite shape in her.  “Would you have him marry her?”

“Marry her?  A thousand times, yes, if she would stoop so low!  What man is worthy of a woman who saves his life at the risk of her own?”

“Disfigured? asked Evelina, in an odd voice.

“Yes,” cried Ralph, “with the scars she bore for him!”

There was a tense, painful interval.  Miss Evelina was grappling with a hideous temptation.  One word from her, and she was revenged upon Anthony Dexter for all the years of suffering.  One word from her, and sure payment would be made in the most subtle, terrible way.  She guessed that he could not bear the condemnation of this idolised son.