It was the habit of Robert Lauderdale, since he had been ill, to rest two hours before dinner, a fact of which Katharine was well aware, and she had sent a message to John Ralston begging him to come and see her when he came up town after business hours. But she did not mean to let him come without informing the old gentleman. Before he retired to his room late in the afternoon, she spoke to him about it.

“Of course, of course, my dear,” he answered quickly, in his hollow voice. “He may spend the day here, if he likes—and if you like.”

“Well, you see,” said Katharine, “I’ve not seen him since yesterday morning. You know, since he’s been going regularly to business, he’s not free in the daytime as he used to be. And as for letting him come to Clinton Place when papa’s at home, it’s simply out of the question.”

“Is it? Do you mean to say it’s as bad as that?”

“Yes—it’s pretty bad,” Katharine answered, thoughtfully. “We’ve not been getting on very well, papa and I. That’s why I came to you so suddenly to-day, without warning. My mother thought it would be better.”

“Oh—she did, did she?” The old man closed his eyes, as though thinking it over. “And she’s generally a peacemaker,” he continued, after a moment. “That’s a sign that she thinks the situation strained, as the politicians say. What’s happened, little girl?”

“I don’t want to tell you all the details. It’s a long story, and wouldn’t interest you. But they got it into their heads that I ought to marry Mr. Wingfield—you know—Archie Wingfield—the beauty—and of course I refused him. That was yesterday afternoon. And then—oh, I don’t know—there was a scene, and papa got angry, and so this morning after he’d gone down town I consulted with my mother and came here. I only wanted you to know—that’s all.”

The old gentleman was silent for some time after she had finished speaking.

“I wish you’d induce Jack to stay here, and announce your marriage under my roof,” he said at last, in a low voice. “I’d like to see it all settled before—Katharine, child, feel my pulse, will you?”

Katharine started a little, and leaned forward quickly, and laid her firm white fingers on the bony wrist.

“Can you find it?” he asked, rather anxiously.

“No—yes—wait a moment—don’t speak!” She held her breath, her eyes fixed upon his grey face as she pressed the point where she thought the pulse should be. “Yes—there it is!” she exclaimed suddenly, in a tone of relief. “It’s all right, uncle Robert, only I couldn’t find it at first. I can feel it quite distinctly now. Does it always go so fast as that?”

“It’s going very fast, isn’t it? I have a little fluttering—at my heart.”

“Shan’t I send for Doctor Routh?” asked Katharine, with renewed anxiety.

“Oh, no—it’s no use.” His voice was growing perceptibly more feeble. “I shall be better presently,” he whispered, and closed his eyes again. Then, as though fearing lest his whisper should frighten her, he made an effort and spoke aloud again. “It often happens,” he said. “Don’t be afraid, little girl.”

Katharine had no experience of sickness, and did not know the danger of that fluttering at the heart in such a case. She thought he knew better than she whether he needed anything or not, and that it would be wiser not to annoy him with questions. She was used to manly men who said what they wished and nothing more. He lay back in his big chair, breathing with some difficulty. A deep furrow appeared between his eyebrows, which gave his face an expression of pain, and his jaw dropped a little, making his cheeks look more hollow. Katharine sat quite still for several minutes.

“Are you suffering, uncle dear?” she asked at last, bending to his ear.

He shook his head slowly, opened his eyes a little and closed them again.

“I shall be better in a minute,” he said, a moment later.

He revived very slowly, as she sat there watching him, and as the furrow disappeared from his brow and his mouth closed, the look of life came back to his face. He was a strong old man, and, though little attached to life, was to die hard. He opened his eyes at last and looked at Katharine, smiling a little.

“I think I’ll go to my room,” he said. “It’s my time for resting, you know. Perhaps I’ve been up a little too long.”

To Katharine’s surprise, he was able to stand when Leek and the footman came to help him, and to walk without much difficulty. She followed the little procession to the door of his bedroom and saw Mrs. Deems come and take charge of him. He turned his head slowly towards Katharine and smiled before the door closed.

“It’s all right, little girl,” he said.

She went downstairs again and returned to the library. It faced the south and was still warm with the sunshine. She sat down again in the chair she had occupied before. Presently her eyes turned instinctively to her portrait. Crowdie had brought the easel while she and her uncle had been at luncheon, and had arranged it himself. He had come into the dining-room, and after exchanging a few more words, had gone away again.

She gazed at the beautiful features, now that she was alone with it, and the feeling of dislike and repulsion grew stronger, till she felt something like what she experienced when she looked at Crowdie’s pale face and red mouth. She felt that he had put something into the painting which had no right there, which he had no right to imagine—yet she could not tell what it was. Presently she rose and glanced round the room in search of a looking-glass. But old Lauderdale did not like mirrors, and there was none in the library. On the table, however, stood a photograph of herself in a silver frame. She seized it as soon as she saw it and held it up in her hand, comparing it with the portrait. She found it hard to tell where the difference lay, unless it was in the eyelids and the slight parting of the lips, but she felt it and disliked it more and more.

At that moment the door was opened by one of the footmen.

“Mr. Ralston,” said the man, announcing John, who entered immediately afterwards.

The door closed behind him as he came forward. Katharine’s heart jumped, as she became conscious of his presence. It was as though a strong current of life had been turned upon her after having been long alone with death. Ralston moved easily, with the freedom that comes naturally of good proportions. His bright brown eyes gleamed with pleasure, and the hard, defiant lines of the lean face relaxed in a rare smile.

He kissed her tenderly, with a nervous, passionate lightness that belongs only to finely organized beings, twice or three times. And then she kissed him once with all her heart, and looked into the eyes she loved.

“How good it is to have this chance!” he exclaimed, happily. “This is better than South Fifth Avenue at nine o’clock in the morning—isn’t it? Why didn’t we think of it before?”

“I can’t be always stopping with uncle Robert, you know,” answered Katharine. “I wish I could.”

Something in the tone of the last words attracted his attention. With a gentle touch he made her turn her face to the light, and looked at her.

“What’s happened?” he asked, suddenly. “There’s been some trouble, I know. Tell me—you’ve had more worry at home, haven’t you?”

“Oh—it’s nothing!” Katharine answered, lightly. “You see how easy it is for me to get away. What does it matter?”

“Yes—but there has been something,” insisted John, shaking his head. “I don’t like this, Katharine.”

He turned away from her, and his eyes fell upon the portrait. It instantly fixed his attention.

“Holloa!” he exclaimed. “Why is it here? I thought it was for Hester.”

Katharine laughed.

“He brought it this morning,” she answered. “He’s changed his mind, and has given it to uncle Robert. How do you like it?”

John looked at it long, his eyelids drooping a little. When he turned his head, he looked directly at Katharine’s mouth critically.

“You haven’t got a mouth like that,” he said, suddenly. “And I never saw that expression in your eyes, either,” he added, a moment later. “What’s the fellow been doing?”

“I don’t know, Jack. But I don’t like it. I’m sure of that, at all events.”

“Does uncle Robert like it?”

“No. He’s anything but pleased, though he thought it splendid at first. Then he saw what you and I see. It wasn’t so in the studio, it seems to me. He’s done something to it since. Never mind the picture, Jack. Sit down, and let’s talk, since we’ve got a chance at last.”

John’s eyes lingered on the portrait a moment longer, then he turned away with an impatient movement, and sat down beside Katharine. He stroked her hand gently two or three times, and neither said anything. Then he leaned back in his straight chair and crossed one knee over the other.

“Somebody’s trying to get me out of Beman’s,” he said, and his face darkened. “I wish I knew who it was.”

“Trying to get you out of the bank?” repeated Katharine, in surprise. “Oh, Jack, you must be mistaken.”

Jack laughed a little without smiling.

“There’s no mistake,” he said. “Mr. Beman as good as told me so this morning. We came near having a row.”

“Tell me all about it,” said Katharine, anxiously, and leaning forward in sympathy. “It’s outrageous—whoever has done it.”

“Yes, I’ll tell you,” said John. “It was this way. In the first place, I went to the Vanbrughs’ last night, after all.”

“But you said you weren’t asked! I’d have gone, too—why didn’t you send me word? At least—I’d have tried to go,” she added, recollecting that she had spent the evening in her room.

“I found a note when I came up town. It was very informal, you know.”

“Yes—they only asked me the day before,” said Katharine. “It must have been very amusing. They were going to do all sorts of things.”

“If you’d been there, I should have enjoyed it,” answered John. “Yes, they did all sorts of things—improvised charades and tableaux—Crowdie was there, and Griggs, and the set. The best thing was a tableau of Francesca da Rimini. Hester was Francesca—you know her eyes. There they are!” he exclaimed, looking at the portrait. “And they made me do Paolo, and Griggs murdered me—”

“Fancy your acting in a tableau!” exclaimed Katharine.

“I never did before—but it was all improvised. Griggs looked awfully dangerous with a black beard and a dagger. Of course I couldn’t see myself, but they said I was dark and thin and would do; so I did it, just to make the thing go. It was rather fun—but I kept watching the door to see if you weren’t coming. Well—the end of it was that we stayed very late. You know what a fellow Vanbrugh is—he’s a criminal lawyer, of all things—and he knows all kinds of people. There was an actor and any number of musical people, and that Russian pianist—what’s his name?—Bezpodobny, or something like that. And we had supper, and then we got to smoking—two or three of the women stayed. You know Dolly Vanbrugh likes smoke, and so does Hester. I smoked some horrible Caporal cigarettes, and they gave me a headache. But I didn’t drink anything—”

“I know, dear,” said Katharine, softly.

No one knew better than she what he had done for her sake, and how faithfully he was keeping his word.

“Well—I got a headache, much worse than if I’d had a lot of champagne and things. I shall have to live on milk and water and barley sugar if I get much worse. I’m so nervous since—since I gave up all those things. But it will go off—I’ve asked Routh, and he says it’s natural—”

“You didn’t tell me,” said Katharine, anxiously. “Why didn’t you?”

“Oh—why should I? He came to the house—he adores my mother, you know, dear old man—so I just asked him. Well—this morning I felt rather fuzzy in the head—woolly, don’t you know. And of course I got up early, as usual, though it was awfully late when I got to bed. And then I saw no red ribbon in your window—and that put me into a bad temper, so that altogether I wasn’t in the humour to be bothered much when I got to the bank. It happened that there wasn’t much for me to do at first, and so I did it, and got it out of the way, and I sat doing nothing—just like this—look here!”

He rose, and went and sat down at the chair before the great writing-table, on the side away from Katharine. He planted his elbows on the big sheet of blotting paper, and bending down his head, clasped his hands over his forehead in the attitude of a man whose head hurts him.

“Do you see?” he asked, looking up at Katharine. “My head really ached, and I’d nothing to do for a quarter of an hour, so it was quite natural.”

“Of course! Why not? Do you have to sit up straight at the bank, like school-children?”

“Well—old Beman seemed to think so. He came loping along—he has a funny walk, you know—and I didn’t see him. He doesn’t often come out. So he’d stopped right in front of me before I knew he was there. I looked up suddenly when I heard him speak, and I jumped up. He asked what the matter was, and I told him I had a headache, which was rash, I suppose, considering my reputation. Then he asked me why I was doing nothing, and I told him I’d finished what had been given me and was waiting for more. He grunted in a displeased sort of way, and went off. Then my head hurt me worse than ever, and I put my hands up to my forehead again. In about five minutes, back comes old Beman, and wants to see me in his room. What do you think he said? ‘An old and valued friend had warned him that I had intemperate habits.’ That was a pleasant way of opening the interview. Then he went on to say that he had paid no attention to the old and valued friend’s warning, but that I was so evidently suffering from the effects of over-indulgence this morning that he felt it his duty to say that he could not tolerate dissipated idlers in his house—or words to that purpose—and that as he had already convinced himself by a previous trial—that was a year ago, you know—that I had no taste for work, he begged me to consider myself as free from any engagement on the first of next month—which struck me as unnecessary warning, considering that I get no salary. That’s what happened.”

“It’s abominable!” cried Katharine. “It’s outrageous! But you didn’t take it quietly, like that, Jack? You said something?”

“Oh, yes—I said something—several things. I told him quite frankly about myself—how I’d been rather lively, but had given it all up months ago. It’s awful, how a thing like that sticks to one, Katharine! He was virtuously civil—but I can’t help liking old Beman, all the same. He didn’t believe a word I said. So I told him to ask Ham Bright, who’s their junior partner and is privileged to be believed. Unfortunately, Ham didn’t go to the Vanbrughs’ last night and couldn’t have sworn to the facts. But that makes no difference. Of course, a year ago I’d have walked out of Beman’s then and there, if he’d said such things to me, though I suppose they were true then, more or less. It’s different now—a good deal depends on it, and I mean to convince the old gentleman and stay. I don’t want him to bring any tales—lies, especially—to uncle Robert, who got me in. But it’s a wonder we didn’t throttle each other in his office this morning. I take some credit to myself for having behaved so well. But I confess I should like to know who the ‘old and valued friend’ is. I’d like to be alone with him for a few moments.”

“Yes,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “I wish I knew. Oh, Jack, what a shame!” she cried, with sudden vehemence. “When you’ve been trying so hard, and have succeeded so well! Oh—those are the sins people are burned everlastingly for—those mean, back-biting, busy-body sins, dressed up in virtue and friendship!”

“I hadn’t thought about the everlasting side of it. I should be quite satisfied to see the individual burn for three-quarters of an hour here.”

“Jack—” Katharine’s face changed suddenly, as though something that shocked her had been forced upon her mind.

“Yes—what is it? Have you guessed who it is? Do you know anything about it? Tell me!”

“I think I know,” she answered, in a low voice, as though horror-struck by the discovery. “I’m not sure—oh, Jack! It’s awful!”

“What’s awful? Who do you think it is?”

“No—I won’t tell you. I may be wrong, you know, and one has no right to condemn people on a guess. But if it were—” She stopped.

“You mean your father?” asked Ralston. “Don’t you?”

Katharine was silent. She gave no sign of assent or dissent, but looked straight into John’s eyes.

“Of course you do!” he exclaimed. “He was in the bank the day before yesterday. Don’t you know? I told you I saw him. And he was alone with Mr. Beman in his room. I say—Katharine—if it is, you know—”

He did not complete the sentence, but his lower jaw went out viciously as his lips closed. Not knowing all that had passed between Katharine and her father, he had not suspected the latter at first. It was only when he remembered that he had told Katharine of his appearance at the bank, which she must remember, that he understood what she meant.

“I’m not sure, Jack,” she said. “Don’t imagine that I’m sure.”

“All right—I’ll ask Mr. Beman—”

“Don’t!” cried Katharine, in sudden anxiety.

“Why not? He’s got no right to conceal the name of a man who libels me. I shall tell him that I wish to be confronted with his informant, and that as a gentleman he’s bound to give me the chance of justifying myself. Of course he’ll say that he can’t send for Mr. Lauderdale to discuss a clerk’s character. Then I think I’ll take Ham Bright with me and go round to the Trust Company. It won’t take a quarter of an hour.”

“Of course you have a right to, Jack,” said Katharine. “Only, I hope you won’t do that. I’m not cowardly, you know, am I? But if you knew what it meant to live in a permanent tempest—”

“Has he been tormenting you again?” asked Ralston, quickly, and forgetting his own troubles at the mention of hers.

She would have told him everything, and it might have been better if she had. But he had frightened her on the previous day by threatening to insist on announcing their marriage if she were further troubled at home. She thought it wiser to turn back to the original point.

“If I were sure that it was papa who spoke to Mr. Beman, I could never be civil to him again,” she said. “Can you imagine anything much worse? I can’t. But you’re quite right to try and stay at Beman’s. It means a great deal to uncle Robert—your sticking to regular work, don’t you see?”

“I don’t know what will happen when he dies,” said Ralston, thoughtfully. “Nobody else will ever do anything for me, when he’s gone.”

“No,” answered Katharine, suppressing a smile at the thought of what she knew, “nobody else will do anything. Let’s hope that uncle Robert will live long enough to see you succeed. But do you know, Jack, I’m anxious about him. Of course Doctor Routh tells him he’ll get quite well again, and I daresay he will, but I can’t help feeling sometimes, when I’m with him—” she hesitated. “He’s very old, you know,” she added.

They talked for some time of the old gentleman’s condition, and he would have been pleased, could he have heard them, at their genuine hope for his recovery. It would have balanced the sentiments of some other members of the family as he had described them to Katharine that morning. They had much to say to one another, and as there was no especial reason why John should go away, he stayed, overjoyed at his good fortune in being able to talk with her at last without the fear of interruption and of exciting attention, which beset them when they met at parties.

It was growing late, and the sunshine had turned red and was fading from the splendid old books on the east wall of the room, when the door opened and Leek appeared.

“Mr. Alexander Lauderdale wishes to speak with you, Miss Katharine,” he said, and then glanced discreetly at Ralston.

It is necessary to say that Leek was almost as thoroughly acquainted with the state of the family’s affairs as any member of it, and that Alexander’s dislike of John was perfectly well known to him.

Katharine stopped in the middle of a phrase, as though she had been struck. Ralston looked at the butler and then at Katharine, wondering what she would say. The library, constructed with a view to avoiding draughts, had only one door, which led into the hall, so that John could not go out without meeting Alexander. Katharine had not believed that her father would come to make trouble under his uncle’s roof, but he was well acquainted with the old gentleman’s habits, and knew that he would be resting at that hour. It was a difficult situation.

“I don’t know what to do,” said Katharine, in a low voice, helpless, at first. “I can’t refuse to see him, since he knows I’m in. Can’t you get out of the room, Jack?”

“There’s no other door,” answered Ralston, looking about. “Face it out. Let him come in!”

“I daren’t—he’ll make another scene—”

“Not before me—if he begins, I’ll make him stop. You can’t send him away,” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Imagine what that man would think, and what he’d tell the other servants. That settles it.”

Leek stood motionless by the door during the colloquy, which he could not overhear, though he knew exactly what the two were saying. Katharine hesitated a moment longer, and then gave the order.

“Ask my father to go into the drawing-room,” she said. “I’ll come in a moment.”

Ralston laughed softly as Leek disappeared.

“What idiots we were—of course!” he said. “As though there were only one room. Look here, Katharine,” he continued, taking her hand as she rose, “I could slip out while you’re in there, but I’m not going to. I want to see you afterwards. I’ll wait here.”

“Do!” answered Katharine. “I shall feel better if I know you’re here. Not that I’m frightened—but—you understand.”

“Perfectly,” answered Ralston, looking at her.

She left the room and he closed the door behind her. She found her father standing in the middle of the great drawing-room, in the evening light, holding his hat, and still wearing his thin black overcoat, as though he did not mean to stay long—an observation which reassured her. But his face was dark and angry and his lips looked dry and cold. She stood still at a little distance from him.

“Katharine, what is the meaning of this?” he asked, sternly. “Why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here, papa,” answered Katharine, quietly, for she was determined, if possible, to avoid an angry altercation.

“I suppose you mean that you’ve come here because I locked you in your room this morning. I don’t consider that a reason.”

“I think you’ll admit that you acted hastily,” said Katharine. “Besides, have you any objection to my paying uncle Robert a visit? I’ve been here before in the same way, you know. You always seemed pleased. Won’t you sit down?”

She was trying to be civil, but he was in no humour to court civility. He paid no attention to her invitation, but remained standing in the middle of the room.

“You understood perfectly well why I locked the door this morning,” he said. “It’s of no use to say that I acted hastily. I intended that you should feel my authority, and you shall. One of us two must be master. I’ll not be browbeaten, and contradicted, and disobeyed by my own daughter, besides submitting to any language she chooses to apply to me.”

“Do you propose to take me back by force?” asked Katharine, with a smile. “You know it’s impossible. Or do you mean to argue with me? You won’t convince me, and you ought to see that you can’t.”

“In other words, you’ve left your father’s house without warning, and not meaning to come back,” answered Alexander Junior, coldly.

“Not at all. I came here, with my mother’s consent, to make a visit. When you agree to treat me properly, I’ll come back. I certainly won’t stay where I’m liable to be locked up in my room by you at your discretion. It’s not safe. You didn’t even leave the key in the house, so that they might have brought me something to eat if I hadn’t been able to get out.”

“You did get out.”

“By a mere chance. There happened to be a key which fitted the lock, or I might be there still.”

“It’s where you should be. How long is this state of war to last? Do you think I’ll endure it much longer? You’re mistaken.”

“I don’t see what you can do, if you won’t treat me like a human being. Possibly you may get to the end of my patience, too.”

“Do you mean to threaten me? Me!” Alexander’s face darkened visibly, and he drew himself up to his full height.

“I don’t know,” answered Katharine, keeping her temper. “I might think it worth while to explain to uncle Robert, you know. I don’t think that he’d be particularly pleased if he knew all you’ve done. I merely told him that it wasn’t very peaceful in our house just now, as you wanted me to marry Mr. Wingfield, and I wouldn’t. I’ve not told him anything else—but I might, you know. I’m likely to be with him most of the day. I imagine you’d rather not offend uncle Robert.”

Katharine was not prepared for the effect produced by this speech, which was diametrically opposite to the result she had expected. She had imagined that a reference to the will would act directly upon her father’s love of money and make him cautious. Instead of this, however, he grew more angry.

“If you insult me in this way again, I shall certainly use force,” he said, in a harsh way. “You’re not of age, and I believe that the law can constrain you to obey me, and the police will act with the law. How do you dare to tell me that you can frighten uncle Robert into changing his will! You’re going a little further than yesterday. I’ve warned you to be careful. It’s your own fault if you go too far. The nearest Justice of the Peace will give me an order to remove you to your home in an hour. Don’t exasperate me! Put on your things and come quietly with me. If you refuse, I’ll act at once. You shall come. I say it, and I won’t be disobeyed.”

“And I won’t be threatened,” answered Katharine, with a rising intonation. “As for your getting any order to remove me, as you call it, I doubt whether you could. I rather think that uncle Robert is a much more powerful person than you are, and that your policemen would think twice before trying to force their way into his house. Don’t you think so yourself?”

Her anger was up, too, and her mother was not there to come between them. She forgot that the door of the drawing-room opened upon the same hall as the library, but that it was not closed except by a heavy curtain.

“And as for your saying that I’ve gone a little further than yesterday,” she continued, her deep voice rising strong and clear in the big room, “you’ve gone further, too. You’ve been trying to hurt me by hurting the man I love. You’ve been to Mr. Beman, and you’ve told him that Jack is dissipated. Yes—I thought so—it was you who said it. You can’t deny it.”

“Certainly not!” exclaimed Alexander. “I was quite right to warn an old acquaintance against employing such a fellow. He’s a discredit to the bank, he’s a—”

“Stop, papa! I forbid you to say such things—”

Alexander’s great voice suddenly broke out like thunder.

“You! You forbid me to say what I please! I say that John Ralston’s a reprobate, a man not fit to be received in decent society, a low drunkard—”

“Oh! Is that what you say?” John Ralston drew aside the curtain, and entered the room as he spoke.

Katharine turned pale, but her father was no coward. His steely eyes fixed themselves on John’s face.