“But, Katrine,” he cried, “look at me, Katrine!  Nothing has been settled between us.  I have asked you to marry me.  You say you will not.  You tell me you still care some little for me.  It’s a foolish situation.  I was a cad, an ignorant and colossally selfish cad, but I am humbled and oh, I want you so!”

There was nothing but kindness and affection in her face as she stood with appealing eyes looking up at him.

“Do you want me to tell you what I believe to be the truth?”

“Yes; but, Katrine, don’t make it hurt too much,” he said.

“I think,” she spoke the words softly, “if I had gone out of your life, had had no voice, had not succeeded, if the world had not spoken my name to you, you would have forgotten me in a year.  I believe it is not Katrine Dulany, the daughter of your Irish overseer, whom you love, but La Dulany, who happens to have a gift, the adopted daughter of the Countess de Nemours, the woman whom you have heard the Duc de Launay wishes to marry!”

“Oh, Katrine!”

“I don’t want to hurt you! indeed, indeed I don’t,” she repeated.  “I wanted you to know exactly what I think.  Ah,” she cried, “be fair!  Do you blame me?”

“No,” he answered.  “I blame you for nothing; but it is not true!  I love the soul of you, Katrine.  And there has been between us love, love stronger than ourselves or our foolish prejudices.  I believe that neither of us can forget, that something stronger than your will or mine draws us together.  I will not accept your refusal.  And you will not forget me!  I mean to see to it that you shall not.”

They returned to the house, through the incoming sea fog, in silence.  At the foot of the side-stair they shook hands and said “good-bye” softly.

He had not expected to see her again in the evening.  But here he failed to understand that the excitement under which she was laboring made either solitude or inaction unendurable.  She was among the first to come down to dinner, and never, he reviewed the entire past before he came to the conclusion, had he seen her more beautiful.  She wore pink, modish in the extreme, with many jewels—­he recalled that he had never before seen her wear jewels—­and she seemed in sky-scraping spirits, her eyes alight with fire and vivacity; and at the table he could hear the droll tones of her voice before the laughter came; and altogether she went far toward driving him daft by an apparent gayety at parting with him forever.

Immediately after the ladies left the table Dermott touched Frank lightly on the arm.  “Could I have a few words with you in the gun-room?” he asked.  “It’s the place where we shall be the least likely to be interrupted.”

Ravenel followed him, after a nod of acquiescence, and stood on one side of a great chimney, which was filled with glowing logs, waiting for the Irishman to speak.  He was entirely unprepared, however, for the consideration, even the impersonal kindness in Dermott’s voice as he said, “I’m afraid I’m letting you in for a pretty bad time, Ravenel.”