“Do you know,” remarked Richard at length, “that I have lost something of the ambition that inspired me some months ago? Perhaps I have grown weary of work, or this great city has had a depressing effect upon my aspirations. Whatever may be the reason, however, I find that I no longer build the castles in the air that I raised with so much enthusiasm not long ago. Why is it, do you think?”
He glanced at her searchingly; and, as their eyes met, her cheeks lost something of their color.
“Ambition may sleep, but it never dies, Mr. Stoughton. You are suffering from the reaction of your sudden and remarkable success.”
“My success!” he exclaimed. “Yes; I have won one great and gratifying success since I came to New York; and only one.”
“And that is?” she asked softly, and with averted eyes.
“I have made you my friend,” he said, bending toward her until the perfume of her luxuriant hair thrilled him with vague ecstasy, and the smile on her lips seemed almost a caress.
Suddenly she looked up at him, and in her eyes lay a troubled and beseeching gleam.
“And the price of my friendship—are you willing to pay it?” she asked gently.
“Of course I am!” he exclaimed. “No sacrifice on my part is too great to make in such a cause. Bargains like this one are made in heaven, are they not?”
She glanced at him with an expression in her eyes that told him he had wounded her. Without a word she arose and walked into the music-room, and he followed her with a repentant look in his face. Seating herself at the piano, she played softly some of the Lenten music she had heard at the afternoon service.