“Who is there?  Who is ringing, please?”

And Coira O’Hara, holding a candle in her hand, came upon the stair-landing and stood gazing down into the darkness.  She wore a sort of dressing-gown, a heavy white garment which hung in straight, long folds to her feet and fell away from the arm that held the candle on high.  The yellow beams of light struck down across her head and face, and even at the distance the man could see how white she was and hollow-eyed and worn—­a pale wraith of the splendid beauty that had walked in the garden at La Lierre.

“Who is there, please?” she asked again.  “I can’t see.  What is it?”

“It is I, Coira!” said Ste. Marie.

And she gave a sharp cry.  The arm which was holding the candle overhead shook and fell beside her as if the strength had gone out of it.  The candle dropped to the floor, spluttered there for an instant and went out, but there was still a little light from the hall above.

Ste. Marie sprang up the stairs to where the girl stood, and caught her in his arms, for she was on the verge of faintness.  Her head fell back away from him, and he saw her eyes through half-closed lids, her white teeth through parted lips.  She was trembling—­but, for that matter, so was he at the touch of her, the heavy and sweet burden in his arms.  She tried to speak, and he heard a whisper: 

“Why?  Why?  Why?”

“Because it is my place, Coira!” said he.  “Because I cannot live away from you.  Because we belong together.”

The girl struggled weakly and pushed against him.  Once more he heard whispering words and made out that she tried to say: 

“Go back to her!  Go back to her!  You belong there!”

But at that he laughed aloud.

“I thought so, too,” said he, “but she thinks otherwise.  She’ll have none of me, Coira.  It’s Richard Hartley now.  Coira, can you love a jilted man?  I’ve been jilted—­thrown over—­dismissed.”

Her head came up in a flash and she stared at him, suddenly rigid and tense in his arms.

“Is that true?” she demanded.

“Yes, my love!” said he.

And she began to weep, with long, comfortable sobs, her face hidden in the hollow of his shoulder.  On one other occasion she had wept before him, and he had been horribly embarrassed, but he bore this present tempest without, as it were, winking.  He gloried in it.  He tried to say so.  He tried to whisper to her, his lips pressed close to the ear that was nearest them, but he found that he had no speech.  Words would not come to his tongue; it trembled and faltered and was still for sheer inadequacy.