It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. Ramage. He was asleep. “Why?” “I still love you. Ramage, I came here—I didn’t suppose for one moment you would dare —” “Nonsense! That is your mistake! You are too intellectual. ” “You will make me horribly conceited,” he answered. ’ She gave him a straight look. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone.
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