“Certainly.”
“How long do you purpose to keep me in this place?”
“Until you, of your own free will, can utter three simple words.”
“And those words?”
“I love you.”
“Then,” she said, slowly, decisively, “I am doomed to remain here until death releases me.”
“Yes; the death of ambition.”
She turned from him with a bitter laugh, seating herself in a chair near the window. Looking up into his face, she said, with maddening submission:
“I presume your daily visits are to be a part of the torture I am to endure?”
His smile, as he shook his head in response, incensed her to the point of tears, and she was vastly relieved when he turned abruptly and left the apartment. When the maid came in she found Miss Garrison asleep on the couch, her cheeks stained with tears. Tired, despairing, angry, she had found forgetfulness for the while. Sleep sat lightly upon her troubled brain, however, for the almost noiseless movements of the maid awakened her and she sat up with a start.