“I am sorry to hear you say so, Pauline, for on my part I have been effectually cured.  I even look back and regard our love-making as a foolish, boyish fancy in which neither of us knew our own minds.  Why can’t you do the same?” he says, calmly.

“I am not built that way—­my nature is of the tropical order, for my mother was born in Corsica, you know.  Some of these fair English girls may be fickle, but Pauline Potter is the same as when she knew you in Chicago.  But, John Craig, this same love can change to hate; it is but a step between the two, and no magician’s wand is needed to make the transformation.”

Already a change has swept over her face; it does not look so lovely now, for the arched black brows meet in a frown, while from the midnight eyes the fires of aroused passions begin to scintillate.

Craig knows that when he stirs up the pool he arouses the worst elements in her nature.  Still he will not disguise his feelings and assume an ardor he is far from feeling.

Mentally he contrasts this girl with the English maid, and Pauline suffers by the comparison.

Perhaps a trifle of the scorn he feels shows upon his face.  Pauline can no longer call him her slave, and it may be this that arouses the new feeling in her heart, for a woman will never bear the sneers of one whom she has madly loved.

“This is worse than foolish, Pauline.  You seem to know at least a portion of my mission abroad, and hence must be aware that I am in no humor for love-making—­that my whole soul is bound up in my search.”

“Well, I can help you, John,” she says, quietly, holding her feelings in check until she has ventured upon this last resort.

“You can?  Then I beg of you, Pauline, to give me assistance.  To find my mother is the one thought of my existence, and any one who can shorten my quest must have my deepest gratitude.”

Pauline frowns again.

“I hate that word; it has no place with me, John Craig.  Friendship I despise—­it is either love or hate with me.  Let me tell you what I am in a position to do—­find your mother for you, bring you face to face, or, on the other hand, render it impossible for you to ever set eyes upon her.”

Her manner proves it to be no idle boast, but the young man will not descend to deceit, even when he might accomplish so much.

“Will you bring about this meeting?” he asks.

“On one condition, John.”

“Well”—­hesitatingly—­“name it.”

“That you marry me,” is the prompt reply, and even Pauline, actress by nature and vocation as she is, turns a trifle rosy under his gaze, though not abashed.

“That is a sudden ultimatum.  Kindly tell me when you would like this little affair to come off?” he asks, lightly.

“Now—­before I take you to the one you have long sought.”

“Pardon me; I can hardly collect my wits.  You see I had not dreamed of marrying for years.  It is very, very sudden.”