Something in her rebelled, revolted. At all costs, she would refuse, reject him.

"Yes; I have been thinking," she said. "I am sorry, Stracey, but I cannot do what you wish. I cannot marry

you.

She spoke the words calmly enough. For was she not buoyed up with the thought that she was married already? She could set him at defiance.

Stracey started slightly, but still kept upon his face the smile with which he had begun.

"I am sorry to hear this, Kyra," he said; "because I love you very dearly. You must know that I love you; that my greatest desire in life is to win you for my wife. I had hoped that reflection would have brought you to understand, to realise my love and devotion. Are you quite sure that you mean 'no "?"

"I am quite sure," she said.

He took a step forward and tried to take her hand, the hand over which hung the diamond bracelet; but she drew it beyond his reach.

"I am quite sure," she said. "I do not want to marry you, Stracey."

"You do not love me," he said. "Do you mean that? If so, I do not lose heart altogether. I am content to wait. I only want your promise that you will think of me as your future husband.

Before her rose the vision of the stora-darkened church, of the mumbling clergyman, of Lance le Breton's manly, agitated voice.

"It is quite impossible," she said, in a low voice. "I could not marry you. I could not."

As she said the words the door was opened, softly, gently, and Mr. James Froyte stood listening.

"Think again, consider," said Stracey, in his soft, low voice.

"I have thought," said Kyra.

"I cannot marry you." She slipped the bracelet off her hand and held it out. "Take this, Stracey; I do not want it."

He made a gesture of repudiation, and, with a sigh, she let the bracelet fall upon her arm and slowly, with an Oriental gesture, glided from the room by the door opposite that at which James Froyte was listening.

He entered as she disappeared. Father and son regarded each other; the father with a nervous, apprehensive questioning, the son with a sullen, angry determination.

"She has refused you?" murmured James Froyte. "She has," assented Stracey. "So much the worse for

her."

CHAPTER XIII.

JAMES FROYTE started at the muttered threat and rubbed his hands nervously as he glanced furtively at Stracey's dark face.

"Wouldn't it be better to give up this idea of a marriage with Kyra?" he said. "You have tried, and failed; you can't compel her to marry you-we're not living in the Middle Ages-and you can't use force. Besides, it's not to be thought of. I'm sorry you got the idea; by making her a proposal and bringing about a rejection, you have caused an-embarrassment. I don't see how you can live in the same house together now. It's made things uncomfortable. Better give up the idea."

He made the suggestion nervously and timidly, and Stracey ignored it. He stood gnawing his mustache and gripping his hands behind his back.

And there's another thing," said his father, in a low voice; "she may come to know about the will; she may want to know what money she has. Have you thought of that? You can't expect to keep her in ignorance forever."

"I've thought of that." said Stracey.

"I wonder she hasn't asked before," said James Froyte, moodily. "If she'd been anything like any other girl, she would have done so; it's only because of the way she has been brought up, and her ignorance of money and affairs generally, that she hasn't done so. If she should ask, what do you intend to do, what do you intend to tell her? You can't keep the truth from her. And directly she knows, she will be independent of us, she will go to a solicitor-"

"And you would lose the allowance you are being paid for her maintenance. You would have to leave this place and go back to a squalid street in the suburbs," said Stracey, meaningly.

James Froyte winced-he was one of those weak-natured men whose gods are ease and comfort. The remembrance of his old life of genteel poverty, of a semi-detached villa in Hackney Wick or some less salubrious spot, made him shudder.

"I know," he said. "But I don't see what we are to do."

"I daresay not," assented Stracey, with a sneer; "and that being the case, you had better leave the affair to me.

James Froyte emitted something between a sigh and a groan, and shuffled off to the smoking-room. On his way, he met Mrs. Froyte in the hall.

"Where is Kyra?" she asked in her toneless voice.

"She has gone to bed; she is tired," said her husband. "You'd better go to bed, too. You look as pale as a ghost.'

66

دو

"I am going," she said, as she went slowly up the stairs. James Froyte went on to the smoking-room and sank on to the easy-chair he loved so fondly, and, lighting a pipe, smoked moodily. He had always been afraid of his son, with his half-sullen reticence, his dark, furtive eyes and secretive manner; he was more than ever afraid of him now, more than ever dominated by him since Stracey had come back home from that mysterious life of which his father knew nothing, of which Stracey never spoke. He was afraid that some plot in regard to Kyra and her fortune was forming in Stracey's mind; but, though he was afraid of it, he had not the courage to speak of his fears openly to Stracey, and was quite inclined to benefit by any schemes which Stracey might form. Go back to penury and Hackney Wick: he looked round the comfortable room and shuddered.

Presently Stracey entered, and his father glanced at him and shuffled in his chair uneasily.

Stracey went to a bureau, and unlocking it, began to turn over some papers; then, without looking up, he said: "I am looking for a letter of Rolf's, the lawyer's." "What letter?" asked his father.

"Any letter,” replied Stracey. "Do you happen to have one?"

"Yes; I have some upstairs; amongst my papers. "Will you please go and get it?" said Stracey in a casual

way.

James Froyte left the room and came down presently with two or three letters in his hand. "Here are some,' " he said.

for?"

"What do you want them

"Only to verify a date," said Stracey.

He glanced at the letters and threw them into a pigeon-hole of the bureau; then he lit a cigarette and smoked in silence, but presently nodded towards the table on which the spiritdecanter and glasses stood.

"She has refused you?" murmured James Froyte. "She has," assented Stracey.

"So much the worse for

her."

CHAPTER XIII.

JAMES FROYTE started at the muttered threat and rubbed his hands nervously as he glanced furtively at Stracey's dark face.

"Wouldn't it be better to give up this idea of a marriage with Kyra?" he said. "You have tried, and failed; you can't compel her to marry you-we're not living in the Middle Ages and you can't use force. Besides, it's not to be thought of. I'm sorry you got the idea; by making her a proposal and bringing about a rejection, you have caused an embar rassment. I don't see how you can live in the same house together now. It's made things uncomfortable. Better give up the idea."

He made the suggestion nervously and timidly, and Stracey ignored it. He stood gnawing his mustache and gripping his hands behind his back.

And there's another thing," said his father, in a low voice; "she may come to know about the will; she may want to know what money she has. Have you thought of that? You can't expect to keep her in ignorance forever."

"I've thought of that." said Stracey.

"I wonder she hasn't asked before," said James Froyte, moodily. "If she'd been anything like any other girl, she would have done so; it's only because of the way she has been brought up, and her ignorance of money and affairs generally, that she hasn't done so. If she should ask, what do you intend to do, what do you intend to tell her? You can't keep the truth from her. And directly she knows, she will be independent of us, she will go to a solicitor-"

And you would lose the allowance you are being paid for her maintenance. You would have to leave this place and go back to a squalid street in the suburbs," said Stracey, meaningly.

James Froyte winced-he was one of those weak-natured men whose gods are ease and comfort. The remembrance of his old life of genteel poverty, of a semi-detached villa in Hackney Wick or some less salubrious spot, made him shudder.

"I know," he said. "But I don't see what we are to do."

"I daresay not," assented Stracey, with a sneer; "and that being the case, you had better leave the affair to me.

James Froyte emitted something between a sigh and a groan, and shuffled off to the smoking-room. On his way, he met Mrs. Froyte in the hall.

"Where is Kyra?" she asked in her toneless voice.

"She has gone to bed; she is tired," said her husband. "You'd better go to bed, too. You look as pale as a ghost."

دو

"I am going," she said, as she went slowly up the stairs. James Froyte went on to the smoking-room and sank on to the easy-chair he loved so fondly, and, lighting a pipe, smoked moodily. He had always been afraid of his son, with his half-sullen reticence, his dark, furtive eyes and secretive manner; he was more than ever afraid of him now, more than ever dominated by him since Stracey had come back home from that mysterious life of which his father knew nothing, of which Stracey never spoke. He was afraid that some plot in regard to Kyra and her fortune was forming in Stracey's mind; but, though he was afraid of it, he had not the courage to speak of his fears openly to Stracey, and was quite inclined to benefit by any schemes which Stracey might form. Go back to penury and Hackney Wick: he looked round the comfortable room and shuddered.

Presently Stracey entered, and his father glanced at him and shuffled in his chair uneasily.

Stracey went to a bureau, and unlocking it, began to turn over some papers; then, without looking up, he said: "I am looking for a letter of Rolf's, the lawyer's." "What letter?" asked his father.

"Any letter," replied Stracey. "Do you happen to have one?"

"Yes; I have some upstairs; amongst my papers.

"Will you please go and get it?" said Stracey in a casual

way.

James Froyte left the room and came down presently with two or three letters in his hand. "Here are some," he said.

for?"

66

"What do you want them

Only to verify a date," said Stracey.

He glanced at the letters and threw them into a pigeon-hole of the bureau; then he lit a cigarette and smoked in silence, but presently nodded towards the table on which the spiritdecanter and glasses stood.