“O Barbara,” he cried, “can’t you see that Mallory is your kind—­that he is a fit mate for you.  I have learned since I came into this house a few minutes ago the unbridgeable chasm that stretches between Billy Byrne, the mucker, and such as you.  Once I aspired; but now I know just as you must have always known, that a single lifetime is far too short for a man to cover the distance from Grand Avenue to Riverside Drive.

“I want you to be happy, Barbara, just as I intend to be.  Back there in Chicago there are plenty of girls on Grand Avenue as straight and clean and fine as they make ’em on Riverside Drive.  Girls of my own kind, they are, and I’m going back there to find the one that God intended for me.  You’ve taught me what a good girl can do toward making a man of a beast.  You’ve taught me pride and self-respect.  You’ve taught me so much that I’d rather that I’d died back there beneath the spears of Oda Iseka’s warriors than live here beneath the sneers and contempt of servants, and the pity and condescension of your friends.

“I want you to be happy, Barbara, and so I want you to promise me that you’ll marry Billy Mallory.  There isn’t any man on earth quite good enough for you; but Mallory comes nearer to it than anyone I know.  I’ve heard ’em talking about him around town since I came back—­and there isn’t a rotten story chalked up against him nowhere, and that’s a lot more than you can say for ninety-nine of a hundred New Yorkers that are talked about at all.

“And Mallory’s a man, too—­the kind that every woman ought to have, only they ain’t enough of ’em to go ’round.  Do you remember how he stood up there on the deck of the Lotus and fought fair against my dirty tricks?  He’s a man and a gentleman, Barbara—­the sort you can be proud of, and that’s the sort you got to have.  You see I know you.

“And he fought against those fellows of Yoka in the street of Oda Iseka’s village like a man should fight.  There ain’t any yellow in him, Barbara, and he didn’t leave me until there seemed no other way, even in the face of the things I told them to make them go.  Don’t harbor that against him—­I only wonder that he didn’t croak me; your dad wanted to, and Mallory wouldn’t let him.”

“They never told me that,” said Barbara.

The bell rang.

“Here he is now,” said Billy.  “Good-bye—­I’d rather not see him.  Smith’ll let me out the servants’ door.  Guess that’ll make him feel better.  You’ll do as I ask, Barbara?”

He had paused at the door, turning toward her as he asked the final question.

The girl stood facing him.  Her eyes were dim with unshed tears.  Billy Byrne swam before them in a hazy mist.

“You’ll do as I ask, Barbara!” he repeated, but this time it was a command.

As Mallory entered the room Barbara heard the door of the servants’ entrance slam behind Billy Byrne.

PART II