that Frederick Norman passed under the spell in all its potency.  In taking an anaesthetic there is the stage when we reach out for its soothing effects; then comes the stage when we half desire, half fear; then a stage in which fear is dominant, and we struggle to retain our control of the senses.  Last comes the stage when we feel the full power of the drug and relax and yield or are beaten down into quiet.  Her voice drew him into the final stage, was the blow of the overwhelming wave’s crest that crushed him into submission.

She glanced toward the door.  He was leaning there, an ominous calm in his pale, resolute face.  She gazed at him with widening eyes.  And her look was the look of helplessness before a force that may, indeed must, be struggled against, but with the foregone certainty of defeat.

A gleam of triumph shone in his eyes.  Then his expression changed to one more conventional.  “I stopped a moment to listen, on my way out,” said he.

Her expression changed also.  The instinctive, probably unconscious response to his look faded into the sweet smile, serious rather than merry, that was her habitual greeting.  “Mr. Tetlow didn’t get away from father so soon.”

“I stayed longer than I intended.  I found it even more interesting than I had expected. . . .  Would you be glad if your father could be free to do as he likes and not be worried about anything?”

“That is one of my dreams.”

“Well, it’s certainly one that might come true. . . .  And you—­It’s a shame that you should have to do so much drudgery—­both here and in New York.”

“Oh, I don’t mind about myself.  It’s all I’m fit for.  I haven’t any talent—­except for dreaming.”

“And for making—­some man’s dreams come true.”

Her gaze dropped.  And as she hid herself she looked once more almost as insignificant and colorless as he had once believed her to be.

“What are you thinking about?”

She shook her head slowly without raising her eyes or emerging from the deep recess of her reserve.

“You are a mystery to me.  I can’t decide whether you are very innocent or very—­concealing.”

She glanced inquiringly at him.  “I don’t understand,” she said.

He smiled.  “No more do I. I’ve seen so much of faking—­in women as well as in men—­that it’s hard for me to believe anyone is genuine.”

“Do you think I am trying to deceive you?  About what?”

He made an impatient gesture—­impatience with his credulity where she was concerned.  “No matter.  I want to make you happy—­because I want you to make me happy.”

Her eyes became as grave as a wondering child’s.  “You are laughing at me,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I could not make you happy.”

“Why not?”

“What could a serious man like you find in me?”

His intense, burning gaze held hers.  “Some time I will tell you.”