“Never saw her before. But why all this catechism, Yvonne?”
Yvonne Kovenay arose. She threw out her hands in an odd gesture. “I want to ask you, Alexander, do you think I work for you as I do for the money you pay me alone?”
His face became suddenly serious. “Why no, Yvonne, such service as yours could not be bought with a monthly cheque. Love of one’s work alone could inspire it.”
The girl winced as if she had been struck. “Love of my work?” she cried. “Great God, did you think it was love of my work?”
III
Acey Smith receded a step as she came forward, a magnificent little creature under stress of her emotions; her bosom heaving, her long lashes dank and her great dark eyes brilliant with the tears that forced themselves.
“Alexander, it has all been for—for love of you!”
She flung herself upon him, her soft arms about his neck, her dusky head with its masses of ebony hair upon his breast.
“Yes, yes,” she cried in sobbing abandon, “a thousand times yes—for you, my Alexander, king of all men, the strongest of the strong!” The tiger soul of her cried out for its chosen mate: “All other men are dwarfs beside you; you crush them with your very smile. Who is there among them all can stand before your might? How could woman help loving you as I do?
“Oh, I have tried hard not to do this! I tried to be patient in the hope that some day you would—would understand. Then, then, she came—that girl on Amethyst Island with her mincing ways and her haughty airs—to ensnare you. I have been mad, mad, mad, at thought of your going to her. Then—then it came to me that I—I was only—your woman spy.”