"Oh, what a wretched ending! I positively hate to read a book like that. It gives me the blues for a week afterward. I don't see why writers can not have some respect for the nerves of their readers and not upset them with a jar that echoes through every fiber of the body."

Carlita flung the book from her, crossed her pretty feet, and leaning back in her chair, folded her hands behind her head and looked at Olney Winthrop, who was spending one of many evenings with her while the others were at the opera.

He smiled rather gravely.

"I don't see how else it could have ended. She couldn't have married the Disagreeable Man, you know."

"Why not?"

"Oh, who would want to? A sickly, treacherous-tempered beast like that."

"He wasn't anything of the kind. Do you think a 'sickly treacherous-tempered beast' could ever have written that exquisite letter which he tore up? He was only fretted into irascibility by the idiocy of others who had not sense enough to appreciate him. No man could have been as fond of his mother as he was and not be genuinely good. I don't see why he could not have been happy as well as any one else."

"He was treacherous-tempered or he wouldn't have torn up the letter, you see," argued Olney, mildly. "I don't see how she could have cared anyway for a great, gaunt, sickly fellow like that."

"That is like you men. You never seem to think a woman can like any one but a Hercules. For my own part, I perfectly detest the conceited creatures who think they are gods of creation, and let you see it in every word they speak, in love with themselves and unrivaled by any woman in the universe, men like—like—well, Leith Pierrepont for example."

Winthrop flushed eagerly, never observing the curious break in her voice, then a sort of generous remorse took possession of him that he had found pleasure in that unjust criticism passed upon his friend.

"Oh, really, you mustn't say that!" he stammered, helplessly. "It isn't true of Leith, not the least in the world. I don't know a fellow more lacking in conceit than he. He is as generous and—"

"Pouf!" exclaimed Carlita, with the freedom of a privileged friend. "Do you think you can make me believe that? He thinks that every woman who looks at him is ready to fall into his arms if he would but say the word. There are times when I positively detest him, and—"

Singularly enough, she did not complete her sentence. She suddenly realized with a surprise that was intense that there were tears in her eyes, hot, angry tears, though why she should be angry, she had not the remotest idea. She hated herself for her absurd weakness, and sprang up swiftly and went to the piano, and rattled off a waltz that came more nearly being without time or melody than anything she had ever attempted in her life before.

She excused herself to herself by mentally asserting that the book, "Ships that Pass in the Night," had upset her, and then turned into a song that trembled upon her lips with a sweetness and pathos that her voice had never contained before.

It was only an old song, such an old one, with the music entirely unworthy of the exquisite words, but she sang it with a depth of feeling that made it sublime.

But the last words were not spoken. They ended in a little sob, a little sob that would not be drowned by the power of the will. She would have risen and escaped from the room, but that Olney caught her about the waist, his face white and wistful and filled with apprehension.

"Carlita," he exclaimed, his voice low and soft with tenderness, "what is it? What has distressed you? You trust me—"

"It is nothing," she cried, endeavoring gently to free herself. "I am too stupid for anything. I really believe I am hysterical over that absurd book, and it is something new to me, too. You mustn't mind me, Mr. Winthrop, for—"

"But I do," he interrupted, huskily. "Anything that pains you is exquisite torture to me. I love you Carlita, love you so that I can not conceal it as the Disagreeable Man did. I must tell you. It is so much better than that I should keep it to myself until too late, if there should be any hope for me. I am not conceited enough to think there is—you mustn't believe that—but if love really begets love, as they tell us it does, mine ought to meet with some return, for Heaven knows it is great enough. I feel as if I were the Disagreeable Man myself, so gaunt and wasted through illness, so unworthy of your sweet trust and affection, and yet—Oh, Carlita, I don't want to wait as he did, when there might be hope. I know you don't love me. I know I am the most presumptuous man alive, that I can even speak upon the subject to you, but—but won't you say something—something kind?"

She was standing and he sitting, holding her by one hand, his other arm about her waist. He was leaning toward her with his face lifted—a face so true, so honest, so sincere, so wistfully pleading, she almost imagined there was a moisture in the frank blue eyes.

She didn't say anything. She was surprised, and stood there staring down at him, her tears dried suddenly. It seemed to her that she had never felt so strangely in her life. He was the first man who had ever whispered that magic word in her ear. It moved her—moved her peculiarly. She felt the strongest inclination to bend down and kiss him, kiss him upon those blue eyes as she would a little boy. He looked so pale and wan, so haggard through the illness which he did not seem able to shake off. Sympathy quivered in her heart like the flutter of a dove's wings, but she could not frame words to save her life, and stood there staring down at him dumbly.

A great anguish arose in his eyes under her silence. A cold dew gathered upon his brow and stood upon his mouth. He dropped his arm from about her waist and bowed his head.

"Forgive me," he said, hoarsely. "I ought to have known, and not have distressed you with a sentiment which I might have known you could not reciprocate. I might have been satisfied with your generosity in allowing me the privilege of your society without presuming upon that generosity. I suppose now I am to be banished, but I deserve it for my presumption. All the sweet, long evenings that have meant so much to me must be at an end. I must go back to the old emptiness, the old unrest."

"Why?"

The word escaped her unawares, but she was glad that she had spoken it when she saw him fling up his head, saw the eager light that came to his eyes, the flush that colored his pale cheeks.

"Carlita," he whispered, hoarsely, "that moment was like—hell! Speak quickly! Can you be my wife? Could you find in your pure heart toleration for a fellow such as I? I will worship you to the day I die! Speak and relieve me of this awful suspense!"

"I have—have been very happy during these evenings that we have spent together."

She never quite knew how she happened to say that either, whether it was sympathy, whether it was that she loved him, or—Oh, yes, she was quite sure she loved him when she saw that wild joy of expression. She did not shrink from him in the very least when he arose suddenly to his feet and drew her passionately to his breast. It was really very comforting to think that she belonged to some one, and that some one belonged to her, and—loved her.

It was even pleasant to be passionately, lovingly kissed, and as she looked with a smile into his eager, craving eyes, she even lifted her mouth to him of her own accord, and returned the caress while she listened to the burning words that fell from his lips.

"My darling, my wife, I can scarcely believe in the reality of my own happiness. I can scarcely believe it is true, that you love me, that you are mine. It seems to me that I must be dreaming. My God! if it be, let the dream last forever, forever!"

Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers returned before he left her, but there was no announcement made to them that night. They said good-night formally and separated, Carlita going to her room, and Olney returned to his bachelor apartments.

He found Leith there before him, and went immediately to his old friend and put out his hand.

"Congratulate me, old man," he said, with a grin which was half idiotic in its happiness.

"Upon what?" inquired Leith, lazily.

"Miss de Barryos has promised to be my wife."

Leith did not even change color. He put out his hand and took that of his friend cordially.

"Certainly I congratulate you, if you wish it," he said, with his accustomed nonchalant indolence. "But what is the use? The marriage will never take place."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say."

Olney laughed lightly, disbelievingly, but there was not the shadow of a smile upon Leith's perfectly indifferent lips.

And Carlita had gone to her room, happy in the happiness she had given, believing that she had answered to the dictates of her heart, and then slowly the expression of content faded from her eyes, a white-lipped horror drew the corners of her mouth. She looked into space dully, hopelessly, stupidly.

She had suddenly remembered the curse of Pocahontas.