The dark eyes suddenly flashed from the fire to his face.  “Why do you offer me—­that?” the dancer demanded, in a voice that was curiously vibrant, as though it strove to conceal some overwhelming emotion.  “Why don’t you give me—­a man’s drink?”

“Because I think this will suit you better,” Merryon said; and he spoke with a gentleness that was oddly at variance with the frown that drew his brows.

The dark eyes stared up at him, scared and defiant, for the passage of several seconds; then, very suddenly, the tension went out of the white, pinched face.  It screwed up like the face of a hurt child, and all in a moment the little, huddled figure collapsed on the floor at his feet, while sobs—­a woman’s quivering piteous sobs—­filled the silence of the room.

Merryon’s own face was a curious mixture of pity and constraint as he set down the glass and stooped forward over the shaking, anguished form.

“Look here, child!” he said, and whatever else was in his voice it certainly held none of the hardness habitual to it.  “You’re upset—­unnerved.  Don’t cry so!  Whatever you’ve been through, it’s over.  No one can make you go back.  Do you understand?  You’re free!”

He laid his hand, with the clumsiness of one little accustomed to console, upon the bowed black head.

“Don’t!” he said again.  “Don’t cry so!  What the devil does it matter?  You’re safe enough with me.  I’m not the sort of bounder to give you away.”

She drew a little nearer to him.  “You—­you’re not a bounder—­at all,” she assured him between her sobs.  “You’re just—­a gentleman.  That’s what you are!”

“All right,” said Merryon.  “Leave off crying!”

He spoke with the same species of awkward kindliness that characterized his actions, and there must have been something strangely comforting in his speech, for the little dancer’s tears ceased as abruptly as they had begun.  She dashed a trembling hand across her eyes.

“Who’s crying?” she said.

He uttered a brief, half-grudging laugh.  “That’s better.  Now drink some wine!  Yes, I insist!  You must eat something, too.  You look half-starved.”

She accepted the wine, sitting in an acrobatic attitude on the floor facing him.  She drank it, and an odd sparkle of mischief shot up in her great eyes.  She surveyed him with an impish expression—­much as a grasshopper might survey a toad.

“Are you married?” she inquired, unexpectedly.

“No,” said Merryon, shortly.  “Why?”

She gave a little laugh that had a catch in it.  “I was only thinking that your wife wouldn’t like me much.  Women are so suspicious.”

Merryon turned aside, and began to pour out a drink for himself.  There was something strangely elusive about this little creature whom Fortune had flung to him.  He wondered what he should do with her.  Was she too old for a foundling hospital?

“How old are you?” he asked, abruptly.