Crowdie’s artistic temperament was as quick as a child’s to understand the moods of others, and he saw at a glance that something serious had happened to Katharine. He had not the amateur’s persistent desire to feel himself an artist at every moment. On the contrary, he had far more of the genuine artist’s wish to feel himself a man of the world when he was not at his work. What he saw impressed itself upon his accurate and retentive memory for form and colour, but he was not always studying every face he met, and thinking of painting it. He was fond of trying to read character, and prided himself upon his penetration, which was by no means great. It is a common peculiarity of highly gifted persons to delight in exhibiting a small talent which seems to them to be their greatest, though unappreciated by the world. Goethe thought himself a painter. Michelangelo believed himself a poet. Crowdie, a modern artist of reputation, was undoubtedly a good musician as well, but in his own estimation his greatest gift was his knowledge of men. Yet in this he was profoundly mistaken. Though his reasoning was often as clear as his deductions were astute, he placed the centre of human impulses too low, for he judged others by himself, which is an unsafe standard for men who differ much from the average of their fellow-men. He mistook his quickness of perception for penetration, and the heart of men and things escaped him.

He looked at Katharine and saw that she was very angry. He had caught sight of Ralston’s face, and he supposed that the latter had been drinking. He concluded that Ralston had offended Katharine, and that there was to be a serious quarrel. Katharine, too, had evidently been in the greatest haste to get away, and had spoken to Crowdie and taken his arm merely because of the men she knew he had been nearest to her in the crowd. The painter congratulated himself upon his good fortune in appearing at that moment.

“Will you have some supper?” he asked, guiding his companion toward the door.

“It’s too early—thanks,” answered the young girl, almost absently. “I’d rather dance, if you don’t mind,” she added, after a moment.

“Of course!” And he directed his course towards the dancing room.

In spite of his bad figure, Crowdie danced very well. He was very light on his feet, very skilful and careful of his partner, and, strange to say, very enduring. Katharine let herself go on his arm, and they glided and swayed and backed and turned to the right and left to the soft music. For a time she had altogether forgotten her strong antipathy for him. Indeed, she had almost forgotten his existence. Momentarily, he was a nonentity, except as a means of motion.

As she moved the colour slowly came back to her pale face, the frown disappeared and the cold fire in her eyes died away. She also danced well and was proud of it, though she was far from being equal to her mother, even now. With Katharine it was an amusement; with Mrs. Lauderdale it was still a passion. But now she did not care to stop, and went on and on, till Crowdie began to wonder whether she were not falling into a dreamy and half-conscious state, like that of the Eastern dervishes.

“Aren’t you tired?” he asked.

“No—go on!” she answered, without hesitation.

He obeyed, and they continued to dance till many couples stopped to look at them, and see how long they would keep it up. Even the musicians became interested, and went on playing mechanically, their eyes upon the couple. At last they were dancing quite alone. As soon as the young girl saw that she was an object of curiosity, she stopped.

“Come away!” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize that they were all looking at us—it was so nice.”

It was not without a certain degree of vanity that Crowdie at last led her out of the room. He remembered her behaviour to him that morning and on former occasions, and he thought that he had gained a signal success. It was not possible, he thought, that if he were still as repulsive to her as he undoubtedly had been, she should be willing to let him dance with her so long. Dancing meant much to him.

“Shall we sit down somewhere?” he asked, as they got away from the crowd into a room beyond.

“Oh, yes—if there’s a place anywhere. Anything!” She spoke carelessly and absently still.

They found two chairs a little removed from the rest, and sat down side by side.

“Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie, after a momentary pause, “I wish you’d let me ask you a question. Will you?”

“If it’s not a rude one,” answered Katharine, indifferently, and scarcely looking at him. “What is it?”

“Well—you know—we’re relations, or connections, at least. Hester is your cousin, and she’s your most intimate friend. Isn’t she?”

“Yes. Is it about her? There she is, just over there—talking to that ugly, thin man with the nice face. Do you see her?”

Crowdie looked in the direction indicated, though he did not in the least wish to talk about his wife to Katharine.

“Oh, yes; I see her,” he answered. “She’s talking to Paul Griggs, the writer. You know him, don’t you? I wonder how he comes here!”

“Is that Paul Griggs?” asked Katharine, with a show of interest. “I’ve always wished to see him.”

“Yes. But it has nothing to do with Hester—”

“What has nothing to do with Hester?” asked Katharine, with despairing absence of mind, as she watched the author’s face.

“The question I was going to ask you—if you would let me.”

Katharine turned towards him. He could produce extraordinarily soft effects with his beautiful voice when he chose, and he had determined to attract her attention just then, seeing that she was by no means inclined to give it.

“Oh, yes—the question,” she said. “Is it anything very painful? You spoke—how shall I say?—in such a pathetic tone of voice.”

“In a way—yes,” answered Crowdie, not at all disturbed by her manner. “Painful is too strong a word, perhaps—but it’s something that makes me very uncomfortable. It’s this—why do you dislike me so much? Or don’t you know why?”

Katharine paused a moment, being surprised by what he asked. She had no answer ready, for she could not tell him that she disliked his white face and scarlet lips and the soft sweep of his eyelashes. She took refuge in her woman’s right to parry one question with another.

“What makes you think I dislike you?” she enquired.

“Oh—a thousand things—”

“I’m very sorry there are so many!” She laughed good-humouredly, but with the intention of turning the conversation if possible.

“No,” said Crowdie, gravely. “You don’t like me, for some reason which seems a good one to you. I’m sure of that, because I know that you’re not capricious nor unreasonable by nature. I should care, in any case—even if we were casual acquaintances in society, and only met occasionally. Nobody could be quite indifferent to your dislike, Miss Lauderdale.”

“No? Why not? I’m sure a great many people are. And as for that, I’m not so reasonable as you think, I daresay. I’m sorry you think I don’t like you.”

“I don’t think—I know it. No—please! Let me tell you what I was going to say. We’re not mere ordinary acquaintances, though I don’t in the least hope ever to be a friend of yours, exactly. You see—owing to Hester—and on account of the portrait, just now—I’m thrown a good deal in your way. I can’t help it. I don’t want to give up painting you—”

“But I don’t wish you to! I’ll come every day, if you like—every day I can.”

“Yes; you’re very good about it. It’s just because you are, that I’m more sensitive about your dislike, I suppose.”

“But, my dear Mr. Crowdie, how—”

“My dear Miss Lauderdale, I’m positively repulsive to you. You can’t deny it really, though you’ll put it much more gently. To-day, when I wanted to help you to take off your hat, you started and changed colour—just as though you had touched a snake. I know that those things are instinctive, of course. I only want you to tell me if you have any reason—beyond a mere uncontrollable physical repulsion. There’s no other way of putting it, I’m afraid. I mean, whether I’ve ever done anything to make you hate the sight of me—”

“You? Never. On the contrary, you’re always very kind, and nice in every way. I wish you would put it out of your head—the whole idea—and talk about something else. No, honestly, I’ve nothing against you, and I never heard anything against you. And I’m really very much distressed that I should have given you any such impression. Isn’t that the answer to your question?”

“Yes—in a way. It reduces itself to this—if you never looked at me, and never heard my voice, you wouldn’t hate me.”

“Oh—your voice—no!” The words escaped her involuntarily, and conveyed a wrong impression; for though she meant that his voice was beautiful, she knew that its mere beauty sometimes repelled her as much as his appearance did.

“Then it’s only my looks,” he said with a laugh. “Thanks! I’m quite satisfied now, and I quite agree with you in that. You noticed to-day that there were no mirrors in the studio.” He laughed again quite naturally.

“Really!” exclaimed Katharine, as a sort of final protest, and taking the earliest opportunity of escaping from the difficult situation he had created. “I wish you would tell me something about Mr. Griggs, since you know him. I’ve been watching him—he has such a curious face!”

“Paul Griggs? Oh, yes—he’s a curious creature altogether.” And Crowdie began to talk about the man.

Katharine was in reality perfectly indifferent, and followed her own train of thought while Crowdie made himself as agreeable as he could, considering that he was conscious of her inattention. He would have been surprised had he known that she was thinking about him.

Since Hester had told her the story of his strange illness, Katharine could not be near him without remembering her cousin’s vivid description of his appearance and condition during the attack. It was but a step from such a picture to the question of the morphia and Crowdie’s story, and one step further brought the comparison between slavery to one form of excitement and slavery to another; in other words, between John Ralston and the painter, and then between Hester’s love for Crowdie and Katharine’s for her cousin. But at this point the divergence began. Crowdie, who looked weak, effeminate and anything but manly, had found courage and strength to overcome a habit which was said to be almost unconquerable. Katharine would certainly never have guessed that he had such a strong will, but Hester had told her all about it, and there seemed to be no other explanation of the facts. And Ralston, with his determined expression and all his apparently hardy manliness, had distinctly told her that he did not feel sure of keeping a promise, even for the sake of her love. It seemed incredible. She would have given anything to be able to ask Crowdie questions about his life, but that was impossible, under the circumstances. He might never forgive his wife for having told his secret.

Her sudden and violent anger had subsided, and she already regretted what she had said and done with Ralston. Indeed, she found it hard to understand how she could have been so cruelly unkind, all in a moment, when she had hardly found time to realize the meaning of what he had told her. Another consideration and another question presented themselves now, as she remembered and recapitulated the circumstances of the scene. For the first time she realized the man’s loyalty in thrusting his shortcomings under her eyes before the final step was taken. It must have been a terrible struggle for him, she thought. And if he was brave enough to do such a thing as that,—to tell the truth to her, and the story of his shameful weakness,—what must that temptation be which even he was not brave enough to resist? No doubt, he did resist it often, she thought, and could do so in the future, though he said that he could not be sure of himself. He was so brave and manly. Yet it was horrible to think of him in connection with something which appeared to be unspeakably disgusting in her eyes.

The vice was one which she could not understand. Few women can; and it would be strange, indeed, if any young girl could. She had seen drunken men in the streets many times, but that was almost all she knew of it. Occasionally, but by no means often, she had seen a man in society who had too much colour, or was unnaturally pale, and talked rather wildly, and people said that he had taken too much wine—and generally laughed. Such a man was making himself ridiculous, she thought, but she established no connection between him and the poor wretch reeling blind drunk out of a liquor shop, who was pointed out to her by her father as an awful example. She had even seen a man once who was lying perfectly helpless in the gutter, while a policeman kicked him to make him get up—and it had made a strong impression upon her. She remembered distinctly his swollen face, his bloodshot blue eyes and his filthy clothes—all disgusting enough.

That was the picture which rose before her eyes when John Ralston, putting his case more strongly than was necessary in order to clear his conscience altogether, had told her that he could not promise to give up a bad habit for her sake. In the first moment she had thought merely of the man in society who behaved a little foolishly and talked too loud, but Ralston’s earnest manner had immediately evoked the recollection of her father’s occasional discourses upon what he called the besetting sin of the lower classes in America, and had vividly recalled therewith the face of the besotted wretch in the gutter. She knew of no intermediate stage. To be a slave to drink meant that and nothing else. The society man whom she took as an example was not a slave to drink; he was merely foolish and imprudent, and might get into trouble. To think of marrying a man who had lain in the gutter, half blind with liquor, to be kicked by a policeman, was more than she could bear. The inevitable comic side to things is rarely discernible to those brought most closely into connection with them. It was not only serious to Katharine; it was horrible, repulsive, sickening. It was no wonder that she had sprung from her seat and turned her back on Ralston, and that she had done the first thing which presented itself as a means of distracting her thoughts.

But now, matters began to look differently to her calmer judgment. It was absurd to think that Ralston should make a mountain of a mole-hill, and speak as he had spoken of himself, if he only meant that he now and then took a glass of champagne more than was good for him. Besides, if he did it habitually, she must have seen him now and then behaving like her typical young gentleman, and making a fool of himself. But she had never noticed anything of the kind. On the other hand, she could not believe that he could ever, under any circumstances, turn into the kind of creature who had been held up to her as an example of the habitual drunkard. There must be something between the two, she felt sure, something which she could not understand. She would find out. And she must see John again, before she left the dance. Her eyes began to look for him in the crowd.

There are times when the processes of a girl’s mind are primitive in their simplicity. Katharine suddenly remembered hearing that men drank out of despair. She had seen Ralston’s face when she had risen and left him, and it had certainly expressed despair very strongly. Perhaps he had gone at once to drown his cares—that was the expression she had heard—and it would be her fault.

Such a sequence of ideas looks childish in this age of profound psychological analysis, but it is just such reasoning which sometimes affects people most when their hearts are touched. We have all thought and done very childish things at times.

Katharine forgot all about Crowdie and what he was saying. She had given a sort of social, mechanical attention to his talk, nodding intelligently from time to time, and answering by vague monosyllables, or with even more vague questions. Crowdie had the sense to understand that she did not mean to be rude, and that her mind was wholly absorbed—most probably with what had taken place between her and Ralston a quarter of an hour earlier. He talked on patiently, since he could do nothing else, but he was not at all surprised when she at last interrupted him.

“Would you mind looking to see if my cousin—Jack Ralston, you know,—is still in the hall?” she asked, without ceremony.

“Certainly,” said Crowdie, rising. “Shall I tell him you want him, if he’s there?”

“Do, please. It’s awfully good of you, Mr. Crowdie,” she added, with a preoccupied smile.

Crowdie dived into the crowd, looking about him in every direction, and then making his way straight to Ralston, who had not left his corner.

“Miss Lauderdale wants to speak to you, Ralston,” said the painter, as he reached him. “Hallo! What’s the matter? You look ill.”

“I? Not a bit!” answered Ralston. “It’s the heat, I suppose. Where is Miss Lauderdale?” He spoke in a curiously constrained tone.

“I’ll take you to her—come along!”

The two moved away together, Ralston following Crowdie through the press. Through the open door of the boudoir Ralston saw Katharine’s eyes looking for him.

“All right,” he said to Crowdie, “I see her. Don’t bother.”

“Over there in the low chair by the plants,” answered the painter, in unnecessary explanation.

“All right,” said Ralston again, and he pushed past Crowdie, who turned away to seek amusement in another direction. Katharine looked up gravely at him as he came to her side, and then pointed to the chair Crowdie had left vacant.

“Sit down. I want to talk to you,” she said quickly, and he obeyed, drawing the chair a little nearer.

“I thought you never meant to speak to me again,” he said bitterly.

“Did you? You thought that? Seriously?”

“I suppose most men would have thought very much the same.”

“You thought that I could change completely, like that—in a single moment?”

“You seemed to change.”

“And that I did not love you any more?”

“That was what you made me think—what else? You’re perfectly justified, of course. I ought to have told you long ago.”

“Please don’t speak to me so—Jack.”

“What do you expect me to say?” he asked, and with a weary look in his eyes he leaned back in his low chair and watched her.

“Jack—dear—you didn’t understand when I told Mr. Crowdie to call you—you don’t understand now. I was angry then—by the staircase. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

Ralston’s face changed instantly, and he leaned forward again, so as to be able to speak in a lower tone.

“Darling—don’t say such things! I’ve nothing to forgive—”

“You have, Jack! Indeed, you have—oh! why can’t we be alone for ten minutes—I’d explain it all—what I thought—”

“But there’s nothing to explain, if you love me still—at least, not for you.”

“Yes, there is. There’s ever so much. Jack, why did you tell me? You frightened me so—you don’t know! And it seemed as though it were the end of everything, and of me, myself, when you said you couldn’t be sure of keeping a promise for my sake. You didn’t mean what you said—at least, not as I thought you meant it—you didn’t mean that you wouldn’t try—and of course you would succeed in the end.”

“I think I should succeed very soon, with you to help me, Katharine. But that’s not what a man—who is a man—accepts from a woman.”

“Her help—not her help, Jack? How can you say so!”

“Yes, I mean it. Suppose that I should fail, what sort of life should you lead—tied to a man who drinks? Don’t start, dear—it’s the truth. We shall never talk about it again, after this, perhaps, and I may just as well say what I think. I must say it, if I’m ever to respect myself again.”

Katharine looked at him, realized again what his courage had been in making the confession, and she loved him more than ever.

“Jack—” she began, and hesitated. “Since we are talking of it, and must talk of it—can’t you tell me what makes you do it—I mean—you know! What is it that attracts you? It must be something very strong—isn’t it? What is it?”

“I wish I knew!” answered Ralston, half savagely. “It began—oh, at college, you know. I was vain of being able to stand more than the other fellows and of going home as steady as though I’d had nothing.”

“But a man who can walk straight isn’t drunk, Jack—”

“Oh, isn’t he!” exclaimed Ralston, with a sour smile. “They’re the worst kind, sometimes—”

“But I thought that a man who was really drunk—was—was quite senseless, and tumbled down, you know—in a disgusting state.”

“It’s not a pretty subject—especially when you talk about it, dear—but it’s not always of that description.”

It shocked Ralston’s refined nature to hear her speak of such things. For he had all the refinement of nervous natures, like many a man who has been wrecked by drink—even to men of genius without number.

“Isn’t it quite—no, of course it’s not. I know well enough.” Katharine paused an instant. “I don’t care if it’s not what they call refined, Jack. I’m not going to let that sort of squeamishness come between you and me. It’s not as though I’d come upon it as a subject of conversation—and—and I’m not afraid you’ll think any the worse of me because I talk about horrid things, when I must talk about them—when everything depends on them—you and I, and our lives. I must know what it is that you feel—that you can’t resist.”

Ralston felt how strong she was, and was glad.

“Go on,” she said. “Tell me all about it—how it began.”

“That was it—at college, I suppose,” he answered. “Then it grew to be a habit—insensibly, of course. I thought it didn’t hurt me and I liked the excitement. Perhaps I’m naturally melancholic and depressed.”

“I don’t wonder!”

“No—it’s not the result of anything especial. I’ve not had at all an unhappy life. I was born gloomy, I suppose—and unlucky, too. You see the trouble is that those things get hold of one’s nerves, and then it becomes a physical affair and not a mere question of will. Men get so far that it would kill them to stop, because they’re used to it. But with me—no, I admit the fact—it is a question of will and nothing else. Just now—oh, well, I’ve talked enough about myself.”

“What—‘just now’? What were you going to say? You wanted to go and drink, just after I left you?”

“How did you guess that?”

“I don’t know. I was sure of it. And—and you didn’t, Jack?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not? What stopped you? It was so easy!”

“I felt that I should be a brute if I did—so I didn’t. That’s all. It’s not worth mentioning—only it shows that it is a question of will. I’m all right now—I don’t want it any more. Perhaps I shan’t, for days. I don’t know. It’s a hopeless sort of thing, anyway. Sometimes I’m just on the point of taking an oath. But if I broke it, I should blow my brains out, and I shouldn’t be any better off. So I have the sense not to promise myself anything.”

“Promise me one thing,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “It’s a thing you can promise—trust me, won’t you?”

“Yes—I promise,” answered Ralston, without hesitation.

“That you will never bind yourself by any oath at all, will you?”

Ralston paused a moment.

“Yes—I promise you that,” he said. “I think it’s very sensible. Thank you, dear.”

There was a short silence after he had spoken. Then Katharine laughed a little and looked at him affectionately.

“How funny we are!” she exclaimed. “Half an hour ago I quarrelled with you because you wouldn’t promise, and now I’ve got you to swear that you never will promise, under any circumstances.”

“Yes,” he answered. “It’s very odd. But other things are changed, too, since then, though it’s not long.”

“You’re mistaken, Jack,” she said, misunderstanding him. “Haven’t I said enough? Don’t you know that I love you just as much as I ever did—and more? But nothing is changed—nothing—not the least little bit of anything.”

“Dear—how good you are!” Ralston’s voice was very tender just then. “But I mean—about to-morrow.”

“Nothing’s changed, Jack,” said Katharine, leaning forward and speaking very earnestly.

But Ralston shook his head, sadly, as he met her eyes.

“Yes, dear, it’s all changed. That can’t be as you wanted it—not now.”

“But if I say that I will? Oh, don’t you understand me yet? It’s made no difference. I lost my head for a moment—but it has made no difference at all, except that I respect you ever so much more than I did, for being so honest!”

“Respect me!” repeated Ralston, with grave incredulity. “Me! You can’t!”

“I can and I do. And I mean to be married to you—to-morrow, just as we said. I wonder what you think I’m made of, to change and take back my word and promise! Don’t you see that I want to give you everything—my whole life—much more than I did this morning? Yes, ever so much more, for you need me more than I knew or guessed. You see, I didn’t quite understand at first, but it’s all clear now. You’re much more unhappy—and much more foolish about it—than I am. I don’t want to go back over it all again, but won’t it be much easier for you when you have me to help you? It seems to me that it must be, because I love you so! Won’t it be much easier? Tell me!”

“Yes—of course it would. I don’t like to think of it, because I mustn’t do it. I should never have asked you to marry me at all, until I was sure of myself. But—well, I couldn’t help it. We loved each other.”

“Jack—what do you mean?”

“That I love you far too much to tie myself round your life, like a chain. I won’t do it. I’ll do the best I can to get over this thing and if I do—I shan’t be half good enough for you—but if you will still have me then, we’ll be married. If I can’t get over it—why then, that means that I shall go to the devil, I suppose. At all events, you’ll be free.”

He spoke very quietly, but the words hurt him as they came. He did not realize until he had finished speaking that the resolution had been formed within the last five minutes, though he felt that he was right.

“If you knew how you hurt me, when you talk like that!” said Katharine, in a low voice.

“It’s a question of absolute right and wrong—it’s a question of honour,” he continued, speaking quickly to persuade himself. “Just put yourself in the position of a third person, and think about it. What should you say of a man who did such a thing—who accepted such a sacrifice as you wish to make?”

“It isn’t a sacrifice—it’s my life.”

“Yes—that’s it! What would your life be, with a man on whom you couldn’t count—a man you might be ashamed of, at any moment—who can’t even count on himself—a fellow who’s good for nothing on earth, and certainly for nothing in heaven—a failure, like me, who—”

“Stop! You shan’t say any more. I won’t listen! Jack, I shall go away, as I did before—”

“Well—but isn’t it all true?”

“No—not a word of it is true! And if it were true twenty times over, I’d marry you—now, in spite of everybody. I—I believe I’d commit a sin to marry you. Oh, it’s of no use! I can’t live without you—I can’t, indeed! I called you back to tell you so—”

She stopped, and she was pale. He had never seen her as she was now, and she had never looked so beautiful to him.

“For that matter, I couldn’t live without you,” he said, in a rather uncertain voice.

“And you shall not!” she answered, with determination. “Don’t talk to me of sacrifice—what could anything be compared with that—with giving you up? You don’t know what you’re saying. I couldn’t—I couldn’t do it—not if it meant death!”

“But, dear—Katharine dear—if I fail, as I shall, I’m sure—just think—”

“If you do—but you won’t—well, if you should think you had—oh, Jack! If you were the worst man alive, I’d rather die with you than live for any one else! God knows I would—”

“It’s very, very hard!” Ralston twisted his fingers together and bowed his head, still trying to resist her.

She bent forward again.

“Dear—tell me! A little while ago—out there—when you wanted it—wasn’t that hard?”

Ralston nodded silently.

“And didn’t you resist because it was a little—just a little for my sake? Just at that moment when you said to yourself that you wouldn’t, you know, or just before, or just afterwards—didn’t you think a little of me, dear?”

“Of course I did. Oh, Katharine, Katharine—” His voice was shaking now.

“Yes. I know now,” she answered. “I don’t want anything but that—all my life.”

Still Ralston bent his head again, looking down at his hands and believing that he was still resisting. He could not have spoken, had he tried, and Katharine saw it. She leaned still nearer to him.

“Dear—I’m going home now. I shall be walking in Clinton Place at half-past eight to-morrow morning, as we arranged. Good-night—dear.”

Before he realized what she meant to do, she had risen and reached the door. He sprang to his feet and followed her, but the crowd had closed again and she was gone.