"Won't you deign me even a glance, Miss Martell?" he asked.
The color deepened somewhat in her cheeks, but she looked him full in the face, and said quietly, "Why use the word 'deign,' Mr. Harcourt?"
"I suppose because my conscience suggests that from you I deserve glances of dis-dain."
"Such 'glances' are not becoming from any one, and certainly not from me. Besides," she added, a little bitterly, at the thought of such a brainless, frivolous girl as Addie Marchmont enchaining a man like Harcourt, "people do not get their deserts in this world."
"You certainly will not."
"How is that?" she asked quickly, not taking his meaning,
"The world is not rich enough to give it you."
Her brow contracted into a sudden frown, and she said, a trifle coldly, "I do not enjoy that style of compliment, Mr. Harcourt."
"Is there any that you do enjoy?"
Her head bent over her work; her thoughts were swift and many, and in the quiet moment that Harcourt waited for an answer to his commonplace question, she fought and iron a battle which, if never known on earth, would never be forgotten in heaven. She mastered self and selfishness, in the very citadel of their strength. Fierce though brief was the struggle that took place beneath that gentle, calm exterior, for the human heart is ever the same,—wilful, passionate. With many it is often like the wild storm that will spend itself to the end, no matter how much of wreck and ruin is wrought. With such as Miss Martell, it is like the storm which, at its height, heard the words of the Divine Master, "Peace, be still."