“I’ve done little,” Dermott answered.  “I hope, however, to do more.”  There was significance in his words, and Katrine looked at him quickly, to find him, however, gazing intently into the fire.  “Tell me of yourself,” he said; “all of it:  the work, the ambitions, and the achievements.  I have hungered at times for direct news of you.  Already your fame is newspaper talk.  You are happy?” he asked, abruptly.

“Happier than I thought I ever could be again,” she answered, with an evasion.

“Once,” he began, in a remote tone, “I was in Arabia with a native serving-man whom I tried to persuade to follow me on a shooting-trip in the desert.  He said he couldn’t go because he had a wife who wouldn’t leave him.  ‘I made the mistake of beating her once,’ he explained to me, ‘and after a man has struck a woman once she’ll stick to him forever.’”

If he expected angry speech of hurt remonstrance because of the too evident implication of the story, he was disappointed, for Katrine raised her eyes to his with sad frankness.  “I think it speaks a truth, Dermott,” she said.  “Sometimes I wonder if there ever was a woman who loved the man who was kindest to her.”  “It’s unrecorded if it ever occurred,” he answered, moodily, taking another road in the conversation on the instant.  “Madame de Nemours wrote me that you are to sing at Josef’s recital next month.”

“Yes, it is arranged.”

“That will mean an opera engagement somewhere, will it not?”

Katrine laughed.  “That’s as may be.  It depends on how I sing.”

There was flattery in the answer.  “It will mean Covent Garden if it depends on that,” Dermott said.

“Thank you,” she replied; and in the conventionality of the response she realized anew that the jesting-time was by between them and she had a man to reckon with.

“To-morrow,” he said, “Josef has written me that, with your permission, I may hear you sing.  Have I that permission, Katrine?”

“You have,” she answered, noting the handsome line of the bent head and shoulders.

“To-morrow at two?”

“To-morrow at two.  And then,” said Katrine, “you will see for yourself what I’ve been doing, so there’s no use discussing it, is there?  Tell me of yourself and Barney.  Does the newspaper work go well?”

“He’s doing splendidly.  He’s more than making good.”

“And the land you purchased in North Carolina!  Do the eagles flourish on it?” she inquired.

“Not yet.  But there’s excellent clay there, and I’ve turned it into a brick factory for the present.  The truth is, I needn’t have bought that land.  I suppose you’ve heard of the new railroad through Ravenel?” he asked.

“Something,” she said, “but not definitely.”

“They’re building it on the other side from the ‘Eagle Tract,’” he explained, smiling at the words.  “Mr. Ravenel is practically putting the thing through himself.  Do you know, Katrine,” he continued, “I think I have underrated Ravenel.  Sometimes in the last year, when I’ve seen him clearing obstacles from his path,” and the way Dermott knew how to belittle a rival was plainly shown in the pitying tone he used here, “I’ve almost admired him.  I have sometimes thought if circumstances had been different he might have even been something of a man.”