“Look here, Delilah—­I like that name better than Kitty, it means something—­you know Belch.  So do I. Do you suppose a man would work with him or for him except for more advantage than he can insure?  Or do you think I want to slave for the public—­I work for the public?  God! would I be every man’s drudge?  No, Mrs. Delilah Jones, emphatically not.  I will be my own master, and yours, and my revered uncle will foot the bills.”

The woman looked at him inquiringly.  She was a willing captive.  She accepted him as master.

“It isn’t for you to know how he will pay,” said Abel, “but to enjoy the fruits.”

The woman, in whose face there were yet the ruins of a coarse beauty, which pleased Abel now as the most fiery liquor gratified his palate, looked at him, and said,

“Abel, what are we to do?”

“To be happy,” he answered, with the old hard, black light in his eyes.

She almost shuddered as she heard the tone and saw the look, and yet she did not feel as if she could escape the spell of his power.

“To be happy!” she repeated.  “To be happy!”

Her voice fell as she spoke the words; Her life had not been a long one.  She had laughed a great deal, but she had never been happy.  She knew Abel from old days.  She saw him now, sodden, bloated—­but he fascinated her still.  Was he the magician to conjure happiness for her?

“What is your plan?” she asked.

“I have two passages taken in a brig for the Mediterranean.  We go to New York a day or two before she sails.  That’s all.”

“And then?” asked his companion, with wonder and doubt in her voice.

“And then a blissful climate and happiness.”

“And then?” she persisted, in a low, doubtful voice.

“Then Hell—­if you are anxious for it,” said Abel, in a sharp, sudden voice.

The poor woman cowered as she sat.  Men had often enough sworn at her; but she recoiled from the roughness of this lover as if it hurt her.  Her eyes were not languishing now, but startled—­then slowly they grew dim and soft with tears.

Abel Newt looked at her, surprised and pleased.

“Kitty, you’re a woman still, and I like it.  It’s so much the better.  I don’t want a dragon or a machine.  Come, girl, are you afraid?”

“Of what?”

“Of me—­of the future—­of any thing?”

The tone of his voice had a lingering music of the same kind as the lingering beauty in her face.  It was a sensual, seductive sound.

“No, I am not afraid,” she answered, turning to him.  “But, oh! my God! my God! if we were only both young again!”

She spoke with passionate hopelessness, and the tears dried in her eyes.

Later in the evening Mrs. Delilah Jones appeared at the French minister’s ball.

“Upon the whole,” said Mr. Ele to his partner, “I have never seen Mrs. Jones so superb as she is to-night.”