and paced the floor a little—gradually he edged toward the folding doors leading into the front room and passed through them.
Rachel stood at one of the windows, which was thrown open. She was leaning against its side and looking out into the night. When she turned toward him something in her manner caused in Ffrench an increase of nervousness amounting to irritation.
"You wish to say something to me," she remarked. What is it?"
"Yes," he answered. "I wish to say something to you."
He could not make up his mind to say it for a moment or so. He found himself returning her undisturbed glance with an excited and bewildered one.
"I—the fact is"—he broke forth, desperately, "I—I do not understand you."
"That is not at all singular," she replied. "You have often said so before."
He began to lose his temper and to walk about the room.
"You have often chosen to seem incomprehensible," he said, "but this is the most extraordinary thing you have done yet. You—you must know that it looks very bad—that people are discussing you openly—you of all women!"
Suddenly he wheeled about and stopped, staring at her with more uncertainty and bewilderment than ever.
"I ought to know you better," he said, "I do know you better than to think you capable of any weakness of—of that kind. You are not capable of it. You are too proud and too fond of yourself, and yet"——
"And yet what?" she demanded, in a peculiar, low voice.
