The old Katrine was beside him, with the pleading, explaining, dependent note in her voice, the same rapid, short sentences, the same shy look which was ever hers when doing a kindness.  “I must tell you the reason I wrote the note.  Last night I was very angry at you.  I forgot Josef, who showed me that anger is for fools only.  Then Dermott came, and while we were walking on the terrace I told him everything:  that I owed you money; that I wanted it paid at once.  He is Madame de Nemours’ executor.  She left me—­not a great fortune, you know, but more than enough to repay your loan to me.  So much is simple.  But there is more.”  She hesitated before slipping her small, bare hand in his again.  “Dermott thinks he knows something which will cause you much sorrow and trouble.  He is not certain.  He is waiting letters from France.  And I wanted to tell you that it will rest almost entirely with me to say what shall be done about this bad news which may arrive.  And I want you, when trouble comes, to remember that once I said I would come from the end of the earth to serve you—­Well,” she said, the look of unreckoning, honest, boyish loyalty in her eyes, “I will keep my word.  You must not worry; I will take care of you.”  It was like a mother’s promise to protect a child, and, save for the sweet confidence in her own powers, Frank, not understanding, could have laughed aloud.  “I want you to think of this to-night, when Dermott talks to you—­will you?—­and to remember that the matter is far from proven.  Madame de Nemours herself did not believe it.”

“Katrine,” he cried, impressed by her serious face and tone, “what is this mysterious trouble that is coming to me?  Can’t you tell me?”

“I have thought of that, but I believe that you would be happier in the future to know that we had never discussed it together.  I know I should.  It’s all so foolish,” she ended.

“You are really going to-morrow, Katrine?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It is better.”

“For you?”

“For both of us.”

“Ah, Katrine, why?  You are a great enough woman to forgive.  Can’t you do it?  You have done so much already.”

“I am afraid,” she answered.  “I suffered too much.  It was too horrible.  Only,” and she touched his shoulder gently, “you are not to think that I don’t care for you.  It mayn’t be in just the way that I used to do; but nobody else could ever be to me what you have been.  I don’t believe a woman, a real woman, ever loves twice in her life, do you?” She asked the question with the manner distinctively her own, of comradeship, of wanting to touch souls even on this question most vital to them both.

“I hope it’s true of you, Katrine.”

The gray sea broke in white lines on the shore beneath them; the gulls uttered shrill, clattering cries above their heads, before Katrine rose.

“We must be going—­on!” she said, looking seaward, her hands clasped in front of her, her face saddened and white.