Judy had gone to bed and Vivienne was pacing swiftly up and down the room.

Armour would never see her like that again. Her face was flushed and contorted, her head held high, and in all her tempers and mental disturbances she had never flung him so passionate a glance.

“Put it down,” she said with a haughty gesture in the direction of the tray.

“Will you eat nothing?” he said. “It is late.”

“No, I will not.”

He stood quietly watching her.

“Now, proud man, you see me humbled,” she exclaimed.

He smiled compassionately. There was certainly not a trace of humility either in her tone or her attitude.

“I don’t think that any one ever suffered so much,” she said suddenly stopping and clasping her hands. “I—to be so disgraced, so unspeakably debased—oh, it is hard to bear!” and dropping on one of the white couches in the room she burst into passionate crying.

“Poor little girl,” said Armour pityingly coming to stand over her.

“Go away,” she cried, flinging herself into an upright position. “Why did you come up here? I do not wish to see you. Do you forget my odious designs upon you?”

“Silly gossip,” he said, stooping down to stroke her hair.

At his touch she immediately became calm. “Mr. Armour,” she said pleadingly, “may I leave here to-morrow?”

“Yes,” he said soothingly, “any time you will.”

“I will go away with Stargarde,” she murmured. “Do not——”

“Do not what, Vivienne?”

“Do not do that,” she exclaimed pushing his face away. “How can you touch me—I the daughter of a forger and a thief?”

“Vivienne, do you love me?” he asked gently.

“You insult me deeply—deeply,” she said. “Do I love you? Is that a question for a man to ask a woman? I wish that you would leave me. I am not in a condition to talk to you.”

“I love you, then—is that better?” he asked indulgently.

“You do not!” she exclaimed wildly. “Do not perjure yourself. If you kiss me again I shall send you from the room.”

“Do you love me?” he repeated with persistence.

She sprang away from him and resumed her excited pacing to and fro.

“Do I love you? Yes—no—what does it matter? Suppose I do love a man who prizes me simply as he does his other goods and chattels. I could not be more miserable than I am now. I, who have been so proud of my unblemished name. I wish—I wish that I could die,” and she buried her face in her hands.

“I could not lash myself into such a passion as you are in if I lost everything in the world,” said Armour.

“Yet you know how to suffer,” she interposed impetuously.

“Yes; perhaps if you knew what it costs me to say to you, ‘Vivienne, love me and be my wife,’ you would not be so hard on me.”

“That is it,” she replied with a despairing gesture. “You fancy that I admire you. You wish to have me all to yourself; you are a man to be respected by women but not adored, and you are consumed with pride to find one who does adore you; I understand you.”

“Partly only,” he replied. “Vivienne, come here.”

“I will not.”

“I foresee a stormy courtship,” he said in an undertone. Then anxious to try his power over her he added aloud, “Vivienne, please come here.”

“I will not,” she said again, but in her goings to and fro her feet seemed to carry her nearer him in spite of herself.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hands.

“I will not,” she said a third time, but the words were feeble and her outstretched finger tips rested on his hands.

“Sit there now, unreasoning child,” he said, drawing her to his knee, “and let us talk this matter over. I have something to tell you that will greatly astonish you.”

Her black head drooped to his shoulder. “What is it?” she said feebly.

“I have good reason to believe that your father is not the villain he is supposed to be.”

“Is not,” she repeated keenly. “Is he not dead?”

“No,” quietly; “I do not think so.”

She made a bewildered gesture. “I am surprised at nothing now; but why do you say this?”

“I think I would have heard of it if he had died.”

The girl was too excited to sit still. She sprang up again and moved restlessly about him. “You understand him,” she said; “ah, why have you not talked to me of him before?”

“You have never asked me to do so.”

She stopped short, measured him with a quick, comprehensive glance, then resumed her restless movements. She could not understand him; it was useless to try to do so. “You liked my father,” she said impulsively.

“Yes; as a lad my father and Étienne Delavigne were my ideals; your father was very patient and kind to me. He gave me my first instruction in business principles.”

“And were they all they ought to be?” asked the girl passionately. “Did he teach you anything dishonorable?”

“No; he did not.”

“Then why did he change?” she asked with one of her eloquent gestures.

“I have told you already that I do not think he did. I do not know, but I have a clue. Some day I may clear him. I have been looking for him for years.”

Vivienne gazed at him with a swift-flushing face. “Oh, how grateful I am to you! Where do you think he is?”

“In some of the large cities of the States.”

“Why would he not stay in Canada?”

“He would be afraid of meeting some one who knew him.”

“You know everything,” she said vivaciously, “and I know nothing. Tell me more—more.”

“Come and sit beside me then,” he said; “you disturb me with your uneasiness. There, that is better. When your mother died, your father, I think, resolved to go to some large city, change his name, and work quietly at something till he died. It is very hard to find him among millions of men; but he can be found, and for this purpose I have employed different means.”

He paused for a few instants, but Vivienne, who was listening with eager, breathless interest urged him on.

“I employ detectives, advertise——” and he stopped again.

“It must cost a great deal of money,” she said. “But why did my father go away? What was it that he did?”

“I will not explain the whole thing to you to-night, you are too much wrought up already. I will simply say that your father was accused of forgery. I believe he found himself in the position of an innocent man who cannot prove that he is not guilty. Being of a timid disposition he ran away.”

“And left me.”

“And left you,” repeated Armour, “to me. He knew that I would take care of you; and in his fatherly affection he would not have your name coupled with his dishonored one. He wishes to be considered dead, and so he is by every one here but myself and one or two others.”

“There is an immense load off my mind,” said Vivienne, laying a hand on her breast; “but I am not happy yet.”

“You will not be happy till you give up your will to mine,” said Armour persuasively. “You will marry me?”

“No, no; never,” she said, with eyes devouring every line of his face. “I will never marry a man who does not love me as I love him. Yet—yet just for to-night let me imagine that you love me, that you worship me. Let me draw your dear head on my shoulder like this,” and suddenly going behind his chair she flung her arms around his neck. “Let me smooth back your hair and tell you that I love you, love you, and yet I can never marry you. For the last time I will kiss you——”

“There never was a first time,” murmured Armour, who, nevertheless, was deeply moved by her emotion.

“And I will tell you,” she continued, “that you have won what many another man has tried to get and never will get at all, the affection and adoration and sympathy of one foolish woman’s heart.”

“Why foolish?” he asked, putting up a hand to try to induce her to come from behind him so that he might see her face.

She clung the closer to his neck. “Because,” she said, “you have found out that I love you. I should never have allowed you to know it. I have fretted over it and worried and cried till I was ill, but it was of no use.”

“It was fate,” he said; “you will marry me?”

“Good-night,” she murmured; “good-night, good-night. You will never see me like this again.”

He felt her warm lips on his ear and cheek, then she was gone. He hastily got up and had one glimpse of her before she disappeared into her room, one hand clasping the train of her white gown, her head carried well in the air.

“Not to be repeated, eh?” he muttered disapprovingly. “Well, we’ll see about that,” and with eyes bent thoughtfully on the floor he too left the room. In the hall he ran against Camperdown. “How is Stargarde?” he asked.

“All right; how is ma’m’selle?”

“All wrong,” and Armour’s strong white teeth gleamed for an instant through his heavy mustache. Then he went on his way downstairs, trying to recall to his mind a gipsy prophecy uttered about him when he was a lad, strolling one day about the environs of Halifax with Étienne Delavigne. Ah, this was it; the old woman, thrusting her wedge-shaped face close to his, had muttered it twice: “Self first, wife second, friends a matter of indifference, reputation dearer than life.”

“A part of it has come true,” said Armour heavily; “I wonder what about the rest?”