Madeline was at the Harvey Mansion, having afternoon tea with her friend, Kitty. Since their accidental meeting on the promenade at Nice, not many days passed that they did not see each other.

"You will have to go with us," Kitty was saying to her friend. "If you don't I guess I shall mope myself to death."

"Oh, no, you won't," Madeline answered. "You will have lots of company, and any amount of excitement."

"Oh, I don't know. Father is beginning to think more about the climate than anything else. He fancies that New York winters try his health, and what I fear is he'll steer the Skylark away down into the South Seas somewhere, and stick there."

"Well, wouldn't that be very jolly?"

"I don't know. It might be jolly miserable. It all depends on one's company. If you'll promise to go with us, I won't raise any more objections."

"Have you been raising objections?"

"Tons. I much prefer wintering in New York City."

"I should like to visit the South Seas very much," Madeline said, meditatively, "only——," then she hesitated.

"Only what?"

"Well, the truth is, I am going to be a home-bird," Madeline answered, with a slight tinge of colour in her cheeks.

"Oh, that's all fiddlesticks. You haven't a single tie on all this continent. You are your own mistress; you can do precisely what you like without any one calling you to account, and——"

"I admit all you say," Madeline answered, with a smile. "Nevertheless, it is quite true that what appeals to me most is a quiet life in my own little home."

"I wonder you don't get married."

"Well, you see," Madeline answered, blushing slightly, "the man I expected to marry did not come up to my expectations."

"But surely one hailstone doesn't make a winter."

"That is quite true. But perhaps one gets suspicious as one gets older."

"You have had offers enough, I am sure."

"Have I? How knowing you are, Kitty."

"Oh, one needn't be a philosopher to put two and two together. By the bye, do you ever hear anything of your rejected suitor?"

"Occasionally. He's recently had another big disappointment."

"In the matrimonial line?"

"It seems so."

"Oh, do tell me all about it."

"Well, you know I get all my news through dear old Mr. Graythorne. The Tregonys have dropped me altogether, as you know."

"Yes, you've told me that before."

"Well, it would seem that Captain Tregony, soon after his return from Nice last year, fell in love with a widow lady, and they were to have been married some time this fall."

"Yes."

"And now the lady has refused to marry him."

"For what reason?"

"Oh, well, it's a curious story rather, and I'm not sure that I know all the ins and outs of it. But there was a young fellow in St. Gaved—a very clever young fellow, but poor—whom the Captain for some reason hated. One night they met and quarrelled, and this young fellow punished the Captain terribly. Well, don't you see that for a soldier to be thrashed by a civilian is terribly humiliating. So what did he do in order to cover himself but invent a story that the young fellow was mad drunk, that he sprang upon him unawares, and would have murdered him if the gardener had not come upon the scene, and in order to place his story beyond dispute he bribed the barman of a public-house to swear that on the evening in question the young fellow was so drunk that he (the barman) refused to serve him with any more whisky."

"What a shame!"

"Well, recently, this barman, who was prosecuted for poaching on Sir Charles Tregony's estates, and who was angry because the Captain did not shield him, just blurted out all the truth. Of course, I know nothing of the details, but from all Mr. Graystone has been able to gather there was immense excitement in St. Gaved. Mrs. Nancarrow, the lady to whom he had become engaged, refused to see him again, while the people were so incensed against him that he was glad to leave Trewinion Hall under cover of darkness, and, at present, no one, outside the members of his own family, appears to know where he is."

"What a horrid man!"

"And yet, when I met him first, he was most fascinating."

"It's a mercy for you the fascination wore off. But tell me: did you know the young man the Captain tried to disgrace?"

"A little. But you see the Tregonys had practically no intercourse with what they termed the common people."

"He will be greatly relieved that his name has been cleared."

"If he knows—which, no doubt, he does by this time."

"Why by this time?"

"Because he left the country a year ago."

"Why did he leave the country?"

"To better his fortune, I expect. But would you mind giving me another cup of tea? The year I spent on the other side the water made me an inveterate tea-drinker."

"I'll not only give you another cup of tea, I'll give you the entire tea-service if you'll promise to go with us on the Skylark."

"How generous you are!"

"Generosity is my besetting sin as a matter of fact. But say you'll promise."

"Oh, you must give me time to think the matter over. I can't decide in a moment."

"Why not? You've no one to consult but yourself."

"But if self should happen to be divided against self?"

"Oh, you are just too tantalising for words. I believe there is someone in New York you want to capture."

"No, Kitty, dear, you are quite mistaken. The young men of New York don't appeal to me in the least."

"Then I'll go on badgering you until you promise. In fact, I'll set poppa on to you."

"Please don't," and Madeline rose from her chair and began to pull on her gloves.

That evening, in the privacy of her own room, Madeline debated seriously with herself whether or not she should accept the Harveys' invitation. For many things, she would like to winter in a more genial clime. New York was by no means an ideal city when the thermometer was at zero, and the streets were blocked with snow. In fact, it was not an ideal city under any circumstances, and but that most of her friends were there, she would gladly pitch her tent somewhere else.

There was the further fact to be considered, that the departure of the Harveys meant the departure of the people whom she liked best of all, and New York would be terribly dull when their mansion was no longer open to her to run in and out as she liked.

"I think I'll accept their invitation," she said to herself. "It will be a change, and it's awfully good of them to ask me." Then she hesitated and looked abstractedly out of the window.

"It will mean an absence of six months at least," she went on, after a long pause, and she gave a little sigh and withdrew her eyes from the window.

"It is curious that my thoughts will so constantly turn in the same direction," she thought, with another little sigh. "I surely don't owe him any more now. I have paid my debt as far as any human being can pay it. Why cannot I put the whole episode out of my life?"

A ring came to the door-bell after awhile, and her old solicitor was shown in.

"I am so glad you have come," she said, with a smile. "I want you to help me decide a question that I'm unable to decide for myself."

"I'm always at your service," he said, genially; "but what's troubling your little head now?"

"The Harveys want me to go with them on a yachting cruise."

"Well?"

"I can't make up my mind whether to go or not."

"What is there to keep you here?"

"Nothing."

"Then why hesitate?"

"I don't know. I'm growing to like my little home very much."

"You mustn't become a hermit. My advice is go."

"You really mean that?"

"I do. Mind you, I shall miss you very much, but all the same, such a chance may not come to you again."

"Then I'll take your advice."

"By the bye, I heard news this morning of your Cornish friend."

"Sir Charles Tregony?"

"No; the other one."

"You mean——"

"The same! He's evidently done well out of the money you lent him."

"Yes?"

"I've been following him up as well as I could ever since that day he called on me."

"So you've told me before."

"But a man was in my office this morning who knows him, who lives in Reboth, in fact, and who has watched him closely."

"Well?"

"He says if he keeps on he'll be one of the most remarkable men in the State of Pennsylvania."

"Indeed?"

"That's what he says. At the beginning, the financiers swarmed round him like bees. But he wasn't to be had. He just went his own way. Slow according to American notions, but that's the man. Level-headed as they make 'em, and honest to a fault."

"A man can't be too honest, surely?"

"Well, business is so rushed in these days that a man has no time to look up the commandments before he decides. If he don't seize his chance on the dot it's gone."

"Better the chance should go than that he should lose his honour."

"Well, that is a very fine sentiment, no doubt—a very fine sentiment. And your friend, it seems, acts up to it."

"And what has he lost in consequence?"

"Heaps they say. Not permanently, perhaps; for as it happens, the iron is of better quality than was expected. But he might have made his pile right off without trouble or risk."

"And without giving any honest quid pro quo?"

"Those who speculate must take their chance, my child. If people are willing to take risks, why let 'em. Suppose there had been no iron at all?"

"Well, what then?"

"Why, he would have been the poorer by hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"That might not be to his disadvantage. 'A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesseth.'"

"Most people think it does, at any rate."

"But you know majorities are nearly always wrong."

"Excuse me, I claim no such knowledge. I know that majorities rule."

"And rule oppressively frequently."

"That may be so. Human nature is essentially tyrannical. Give a man power, and, without great grace, he becomes a tyrant right off."

"I don't think Rufus Sterne would ever become a tyrant."

"He might, my child, under some circumstances. Never trust a man too far. I hear he is coming east."

"Indeed!"

"Has some new scheme on hand, I expect," and Mr. Graythorne picked up his hat and smiled knowingly.

Left alone again, the look of perplexity in Madeline's eyes deepened. She had told Mr. Graythorne that she would take his advice and accept the Harveys' invitation. But she was disposed to change her mind again. She did not want to leave New York at present. She might hide the truth from other people, but she could not hide it from herself, that if Rufus Sterne came to New York she wanted to see him.

She would not own to herself that she was in love, or anything approaching it. But she was undeniably interested. She had been from the first. Rufus Sterne appealed to her as no other man had done. His loneliness, his self-reliance, his courage, his independence made him an object of curiosity, to use no stronger term.

Moreover, there was a certain aloofness about him—a curious air of detachment, that quickened her curiosity into something she had no name for. In their last conversation he had been wonderfully frank—had opened his heart to her in a way that touched her sympathies to the quick, yet she knew she had not fathomed him yet. She had a feeling all the time that he was greater than he appeared, that his reticence was much more marked than its opposite.

He had suffered wrong without a murmur, and suffered wrong for her sake. He had kept her name out of what he had called a sordid quarrel, and gone on his way in silence, asking no sympathy and seeking no revenge.

How was it possible, therefore, that she could fail to be interested in him? He was so different from most of the men she knew. So strong, so self-contained, so doggedly determined.

Some day he would find her out; she was sure of that. He was not the kind of man to remain in anyone's debt. She did not doubt for a moment that he guessed long ago who had sent him the money, but with the true instinct of chivalry he had not thrust himself upon her. He had allowed the months to go by, and had made no effort to find her; and during those months he had proved the stuff of which he was made. In an age of rush and greed and money-grabbing he had shown a fidelity to principle that even his detractors admired.

He might have "made his pile," in the slang phrase of the time, but he had shown no eagerness to do so. He had gambled once with life itself (though she did not know that); he would not gamble now with the things of life, with what men called "the world."

He had learnt his lesson and he would never forget it. To wrong a community was just as wicked as to wrong an individual. He refused to treat his employÉes as "hands"; they were men, not serfs to be exploited, but human beings to be protected and helped. He introduced a new industrial code and made himself one with his fellows.

Mr. Graythorne, who had followed his movements with great interest and curiosity, gave hints to Madeline every now and then, though he was never quite able to take the measure of Madeline's interest in him.

In truth, however, her interest had been a growing quantity. Silence and separation but quickened her imagination. The hints and fragments of news that reached her concerning him all helped in the same direction. His apparent indifference to her made her all the more curious to see him again.

"No, I cannot leave New York," she said to herself, at length. "If he comes I want to be here. He may think I have tried to discharge my debt with dollars and do not want to see him again. To convey such an impression would be to wrong myself, and—and—him, for there was a time——"

She did not finish the sentence, however, but the warm colour stole swiftly to her neck and face and a bright light came into her eyes.

On the following day she told the Harveys—much to Kitty's grief and disappointment—that she could not accept their invitation.