"That—that man"—she jerked her head at the mantelpiece—"has—has a hold on me!"
"What—-do you mean Sir Walter—do you owe him money?" Leonie stared in amazement as she spoke.
"Oh, no—it's worse!" came the reply, followed by a curtailed but sufficiently dramatic recital of the past indiscretion, to which Leonie listened spellbound.
"And you do believe that it was just a bit of bad luck, and that there was nothing really wrong in it all, don't you, dear," insisted the woman who, like ninety-nine per cent of humans, forgot the real tragedy of the moment in the recital of her own pettifogging escapade.
"Absolutely," replied Leonie flatly.
"And you do see the necessity of giving in, now that he has threatened me with exposure if you refuse him when he proposes, don't you, dear?"
"Absolutely," replied Leonie for the second time.
There followed long minutes of silence which the swirl of the waters alone dared to break, and then the girl spoke.
"My life," she said very softly to herself; "my lovely, beautiful free life done. The wind, and the birds, and the sea—Auntie—oh, Auntie—Auntie!"
And she turned and flung herself against the wall with her face crushed into her upstretched arms. "Think of it," she whispered hoarsely, "think of it, my youth, my spirit, my body given into that old man's keeping. I who have kept my thoughts, my lips, my eyes for my mate that was to be; I who have longed for his love, for the hours and the days, and the months, and the years, even unto death, with him. How could——"