Mr. Falconer started and stared at her, his heavy face growing a dust-red, his eyes distended with amazement and anger.

"Are you out of your mind?" he said at last, and frowning at her in a kind of perplexity. "'Pon my soul, Maude, I'm never quite certain whether you are in jest or earnest! If this is intended for a joke, permit me to tell you I consider it in vilely bad taste."

"I am not jesting," she said, very quietly, her chin in her hand, her blue eyes fixed on his unblushingly. "I am in the most sober, the most serious earnest, I assure you."

He rose, then sank into the chair again, and sighed impatiently.

"Do you mean to say that you—that he—Confound it. If ever there was a man to be pitied, it is the one who has the honour to be your father, Maude."

"Why?" she asked, calmly. "Have I not been a dutiful daughter? Have I ever given you any trouble, deceived you? Am I not perfectly frank with you at this moment?" He rose and paced to the mantel-shelf, and leaning against it, looked down upon her, the frown still on his heavy face, his hands thrust deeply in his pockets.

"You've always been a puzzle to me," he said, more to himself than to her. "Ever since you were born I've felt uncertain about you—you're like your mother. But never mind that. What game is this you're carrying on?"

"One in which I mean to win," she replied, slowly, meditatively. "Have you not seen—How slow to perceive, even you, a reputedly clever man, can be! I don't suppose there is a woman in the house who has not detected the fact that I am in love with Stafford Orme, though I have tried to hide it from them—and you will admit that I am not a bad actress."

"In love with Stafford Orme!" His face darkened. "No, I did not know it. Why—-what the devil does he mean by not coming to me!" he broke out angrily, harshly.

She smiled.

"He hasn't come to ask you for me, because—well, he doesn't want me," she said in a low voice.

"What!" he exclaimed below his breath. "Do you mean to tell me that—that—Why, you can't have the shamelessness to care for the man without—until—"

She broke in upon his burst of indignation with a low, clear laugh, and there was no shame in her voice or eyes, as she said:

"Would it be so shameful if I have? My dear father, you and I should differ on that point. We are told that we are made for love and to be loved, that it is our proper and natural destiny. Why, then, should we be ashamed of it. None of us are in reality; we only pretend to be. It is part of the world's system of hypocrisy to assume an incapacity for loving a man until he has asked you; to pretend an utter indifference until he has said the magic words, 'I love you.' As if love could wait, ever did wait, ever will! Anyway, mine did not! And I am no different to other women—only more candid."

"By Heaven, you make me feel—mad!" he said, with suppressed anger. "You tell me unblushingly, to my face, that you have fallen in love with the son of my old enemy, that you want to marry him—you ask me to help you, to—to forego my just revenge, to use my hold over him as a lever, to induce him, force him—Good God! have you no sense of right or wrong, are you utterly devoid of—of modesty, of womanly pride!"

He glowered down upon her with flushed face and angry eyes; but she was quite unmoved by his outburst, and still met his gaze steadily, almost reflectingly.

"A fortnight ago I should have asked myself that question—and as angrily as you; but I can't now. It has gone too far."

"Gone too far! You mean—"

"That I have grown to love him so much, so dearly, that life without him—"

"By God! you will have to live without him, for I'll not help you to get him," he said, fiercely. "Stafford Orme, Stephen Orme's boy! No! Put the thing out of your mind, Maude! See here—I don't want to be angry; I'll take back all I said: you—well, you surprised me, and shocked me, too, I'll admit—you're a strange girl, and say things that you don't mean, and in a cold-blooded way that gives me fits. Say no more about it; put the idea out of your head."

She laughed, and rose, and gliding to him, put her hand on his arm.

"My dear father," she said in a low voice, but with a strange and subtle vibration in it, as if the passion with which she was struggling threatened to burst forth, "you don't know what you ask; you don't know what love is—and you don't know what I am! I didn't know myself until the last few days; until a gradual light shone on the truth and showed me my heart, the heart I once thought would never grow warm with love! Oh, I was a fool! I played with fire, and I have been burned. I am burning still!" She pressed her hand against her bosom, and for an instant the passion within her darted from her eyes and twisted the red, perfectly formed lips. Her hand tightened on his arm, her breath came pantingly, now quickly, now slowly. "Father I have come to you. Most girls go to their mother. I have none. I come to you because I—must! You ask me to put the—the idea out of my head." She laughed a low laugh of self-scorn and bitterness. "Do you think I have not tried to steel, to harden, my heart against this feeling which has been creeping insidiously over me, creeping, stealing gliding like a cloud until it has enveloped me? I have fought against it as never woman fought against the approach of love. The first day—it was the day he took me on the lake—ah, you don't remember, but I—Shall I ever forget it!—the first day my heart went out to him I tried to call it back, to laugh at my weakness, to call myself a fool! And I thought I had succeeded in driving the insidious feeling away. But I was wrong. It was there in my heart already, and day by day, as I saw him, as I heard him speak, the thing grew until I could not see him cross the lawn, hear him speak to the dog, without thrilling, without shivering, shuddering! Father, have pity on me! No, I won't ask for pity! I won't have it! But I ask, I demand, sympathy, your help! Father," she drew nearer to him and looked into his eyes with an awful look of desperation, of broken pride, of the aching craving of love, "you must help me. I love him, I must be his wife—I cannot live without him, I will not!"

He paled and gnawed at his thick lip.

"You talk like a madwoman," he said, hoarsely.

She nodded.

"Yes, I am mad; I know it; I know it! But I shall never be sane again. All my days and all my nights are consumed in this madness. I think of him—I call up his face—ah!" She flung her hands before her face and swayed to and fro as if she were half dazed, half giddy with passion. "And all day I have to fight against the risk, the peril of discovery. To feel the women's eyes on me when he comes near, to feel that their ears are strained to catch the note in my voice which will give me away, place me under their scorn—and to know that, try as I will, my voice, my eyes will grow tender as they rest on him, as I speak to him! To have to hide, to conceal, to crush down my heart while it is aching, throbbing with the torture of my love for him!"

He strode from her, then came back. The sight of the storm within her had moved him: for, after all, this strange girl was his daughter, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. He swore under his breath and struggled for speech.

"And—and the man Stafford?" he said. "He—he has not said—D—n it! you don't mean to tell me that he is absolutely indifferent, that he—he doesn't care?"

"I'll tell you the truth," she said. "I swore to myself that I would. There is too much at stake for me to conceal anything. He does—not—care for me."

Ralph Falconer uttered a sharp snarl of shame and resentment.

"He doesn't? and yet you—you want to marry him!"

She made a gesture with her hands which was more eloquent than words.

"Perhaps—perhaps there is someone else? Someone of the other women here?" he suggested, moodily.

"Yes, there is someone else," she said, with the same calm decision. "No, it is not one of the women here; it is a girl in the place; a farmer's daughter, I think. It is only a liaison, a vulgar intrigue—"

He uttered an exclamation.

"And yet that doesn't cure you!"

She shook her head and smiled.

"No; my case is incurable. Father, if he were engaged to anyone of the women here, to someone his equal, I should still love him and want him; yes, and move heaven and earth to get him. But this is only a flirtation with some country girl—she meets him on the hill-side by the river—anywhere. I have seen them, at a distance, once or twice. She is of no importance. She has caught his fancy, and will soon fail to hold it."

She waved her hand as if she were moving the obstacle aside. Her father stared at her in a kind of stupefaction.

"My girl, don't you know what you are asking for? A life of wretchedness and misery; the hell of being married to a man who doesn't love you."

She laughed and drew herself up, her eyes flashing, a warm glow on her cheeks.

"Who doesn't love me! Not now, perhaps; but do you think I should not teach him to love me, make him love me? Look at me, father!"

He looked at her reluctantly, in a kind of dazed admiration and resentment.

"Do you think any man could resist me if I set my mind upon winning him? No! Oh, it's not the language of hysterical vanity! I know my power; every woman knows how far her power will go. Let me have him to myself for one week, and—" She caught her breath. "Love! Yes, he shall return mine tenfold! I will teach him!" She caught her breath again and pressed her hands to her bosom. "Don't be afraid, father, I will take care of the future. Help me in the present; help me as I have asked you!"

"By God, you ask too much!" he said, sternly, fiercely.

She stood and looked at him. The colour slowly left her face until it was white as death, the light faded from her eyes until they were dull and lifeless, the red of her lips paled and the lips themselves relaxed and drooped, and as he looked at her a ghastly fear smote his heart and a question shot into and a question shot into his eyes. She inclined her head as if he had put the question in words.

"Yes," she said. "I shall die. You remember my mother? I shall follow her—"

He uttered a low, hoarse cry, and caught her hands and held them; then he flung them from him, and standing with his back to her, said, thickly, as if every word were forced from him:

"You shall have your way! You always have had, like your mother before you—you always will. But mark my words: you'll live to curse the hour you forced me to do this!"

She drew a long breath—it was almost a sigh—of relief, and she laid her hands on his arms and kissed him on the forehead.

"I'll risk that," she said, with a tremulous laugh.

There was a silence for a moment, then she said, calmly:

"You will play your part carefully, father? You will let Sir Stephen think that Stafford desires it: you will be careful?"

He turned upon her with an oath.

"You'd best leave it to me," he said, savagely. "I'll try and save you from shame all I can. For God's sake go and leave me alone!"