ONE October day Hilda received a queer little note from Katherine. That Katherine had spent a month in Scotland and was now on a yacht with a party of friends, Hilda knew, and the note was dated from Amalfi.

“Why don’t you marry Peter, you little goose?” was all it said.

Hilda trembled as she read. Katherine’s scorn and Katherine’s nobility seemed to breathe from it.

“I am not as base as you think,” was her answer.

Katherine received this answer in Amalfi. She had come in from a walk with Allan Hope along the road that runs above the sea between Amalfi and Sorrento, and one of the yachting party, a girl who much admired Katherine, was waiting for her before the hotel holding the letter, an excuse for the excited whisper with which she gave it to her.

“Dear Miss Archinard, he is here!”

“What ‘he,’ Nelly?” asked Katherine; she looked down at the writing on the envelope of her letter, and the becoming flush that her walk through the warm evening had brought to her cheeks faded a little.

Allan Hope had gone on into the hotel, and Nelly’s excited eyes followed him till he was safely out of sight.

“Mr. Odd,” she said with dramatic emphasis. “Of course he didn’t know.”

“Oh, he is here!” Katherine’s eyes were still on the writing. “No, of course he didn’t know.”

“You aren’t afraid of his meeting Allan?” Nelly was Allan Hope’s cousin. “Is there no danger, Miss Archinard? He must be feeling so—dreadfully!”

“What a romantic little pate it is! I really believe you were looking forward to a duel. No, no, Nelly, there is nothing of an exciting nature to hope for!”

“But won’t it be terrible for you to meet him? The first time, you know! And engaged to Allan!” said Nelly.

“We are not at all afraid of one another. Don’t tremble, Nelly.”

Katherine read her letter standing on the terrace before the hotel. The dying evening seemed to throb softly in the southern sky, arching solemnly to the horizon line. Katherine looked out at the sea—it was characteristic of her deeply set eyes to look straight out and seldom up. She stood still, holding the letter quietly; Katherine had none of the weakness that seeks an outlet for the stress of resolution in nervous gesture. She did not even walk up and down; indeed the resolution was made and meditation needless. Turning after a moment, she went into the hotel and asked at the office whether Mr. Odd were to be found.

“Yes, he was in his room; he had only arrived an hour ago.”

Katherine requested the man to tell Mr. Odd that Miss Archinard was on the terrace and would like to see him. In two minutes Peter was walking out to meet her.

Peter’s eyes, as they shook hands, were rather sternly steady; Katherine’s steady, but more humorous.

“Sans rancune?” she inquired, with some lightness, and then, sparing him the necessity for a reply that might be embarrassing for both of them—

“I want to ask you a question; pardon abruptness; why don’t you marry Hilda? Won’t she? There are two questions!”

“I don’t marry her because she won’t. And there is the evident reply, Katherine.”

“Do you despair?” she asked.

“I can’t say that. Time may wear out her resistance.”

“I know Hilda better than you do—perhaps. You see I have got over my jealousy.” Katherine’s smile had all its charm. “She won’t if she said she wouldn’t; if she has ideals on the subject.”

“Then I must resign myself to hopeless wretchedness.”

“No; you must not. I am going to help you. Don’t look so gloomily unimpressed. I am going to help you. I am going to do penance, and I don’t believe you will consider it an expiation either! Just encourage me by a little appreciation of my dubious nobility.” Odd looked questioningly at her.

“Peter, when I came back that night I was engaged to Allan Hope.”

“Oh!” said Peter. They looked at one another through the almost palpable dusk of the evening.

“I’ll give you the facts—draw your own conclusions. I’ll give you facts, but don’t ask self-abasement put into words. You really haven’t the right, have you, Peter?”

“No; I suppose not. No, I haven’t the right.”

“You put yourself in the wrong, you see. You must allow me to flaunt that ragged superiority. Peter, very soon after our engagement you began to dissatisfy me because I realized that I should never satisfy you. The more you knew me the more you would disapprove, and your nature could never understand mine to the extent of pardoning. Once I’d seen that, everything was up. It wouldn’t do; and the knowledge grew upon me that the impossibility was emphasized by the fact that Hilda would do. I saw that you loved her, Peter; stupid, stupid Peter! And poor little Hilda! She was ground between two stones, wasn’t she? your ignorance and my knowledge. I give you leave to offer me up as a burnt sacrifice at her altar, only don’t let me hear myself crackling. Yes; I saw that you were in love with her, and that she would be in love with you if it could come—as it should have come—as I intended it to come—foolish, hasty Peter! No; no comments, please! I know everything you can say. I took precious good care of myself, no doubt; my generosity wasn’t very spontaneous; perhaps I thought you’d get over it; perhaps I wanted you to get over it; perhaps even while seeing that Allan Hope would do—for I satisfy him most thoroughly—I kept a tiny indefinite corner in my motives for possible reactions; I give you leave to draw your inferences, but don’t ask me to dot my i’s and cross my t’s too cold-bloodedly. I accepted Allan Hope on the understanding that the engagement was to be kept secret for a few months. I told Allan that you did not love me; that I did not love you; that our engagement was broken. I told him that when I saw his love for me struggling with his loyalty to you. It was the truth from my point of view; but from his, from yours, it was a lie—and own that at least I am generous in telling you! Too generous perhaps. I came back to Paris to tell you that I had discovered it wouldn’t do, and to make you and Hilda happy. And, when I saw you together, both as bad as I was—at least I thought so at the time—both disloyal—I forgot my own self-scorn; I felt a right to a position I had repudiated. I had to be cruel, for, Peter, I was jealous; I hated her for being the one who would satisfy you thoroughly and forever.”

There was silence between them. If she had satisfied him as only Hilda could satisfy him, she would not have gone to Allan perhaps. Odd with a quick throb of sympathy understood the intimation, understood both her courage and her reticence. He had seen her at her noblest, yet there was much not touched upon, far from noble.

The half avowal of a disappointed love flawed her loyalty to Allan. Such love deserved disappointment and was of a doubtful quality. Peter respected her frankness but was not deceived by it. His manliness was touched by the possibility she had hinted at. He understood Katherine and he forgave her—with reservations.

There seemed to be nothing to say, and he did not seek words. He and Katherine walked slowly to the end of the terrace.

Then Katherine told him of her note to Hilda and handed him Hilda’s reply.

“I shall go to England to-morrow, Katherine,” said Odd, when he had read it.

“You will have to fight, you know. She will say that my wrong did not excuse hers. She will say that nothing excused you. She is a little goose.”

“I’ll fight.”

They had walked back to the entrance of the hotel and here they paused; there was a fitness in farewell.

“Katherine,” said Odd, “it would have been very base in you to have kept silence, and yet, in spite of that, you have been very courageous this evening.”

“You are a hideously truthful person, Peter. Why put in that damaging clause? Have I merely escaped baseness?”

“No, for you have never been finer.”

“That is true. I’ll never reach the same heights again,” and Katherine laughed.

“Understand that I understand. Your story has not absolved me.”

“There is the danger with Hilda. You must make my holocaust avail.”

“I hope that a good thing is never lost,” Peter replied.