Her remaining on her feet seemed to signify that there was nothing more for either of them to say, and Archer stood up also.

“Very well; I will do what you wish,” she said abruptly. The blood rushed to his forehead; and, taken aback by the suddenness of her

surrender, he caught her two hands awkwardly in his.

“I—I do want to help you,” he said.

“You do help me. Good night, my cousin.”

He bent and laid his lips on her hands, which were cold and lifeless. She drew them away, and he turned to the door, found his coat and hat under the faint gas-light of the hall, and plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate.