re far away in a new
place, you would be satisfied again--I could make you satisfied.--I...
I don't say--" the even voice quavered over the admission--"that it
would be the _same_. It can never be the same for either of us, it
would be better than nothing. We would find a little home, and make it
pretty. You would be interested in the land. There'd be the shooting,
and you could keep a horse, and hunt. We'd grow all our own fruit and
vegetables. There would be neighbours... They would ask us out, and we
could give little parties in return. Quite cheaply. There would be
quite a lot of things to interest you, and fill up the time. And...
there might be children!"

These last words came with a gasp, rendered additionally touching by the
effort which they entailed. Teresa did not approve of such allusions,
and did violence to her own feelings in giving them utterance. It was
only the desperation of her need which made her daring. Her chin
quivered with a childlike helplessness, and Dane looking on felt a pang
of tenderness and remorse.

"You poor little girl! You dear little girl! You are too kind to me.
I don't deserve it, but I'll be grateful to you all my life. I'll never
forget you, but, I can't do it, dear--I can't! Try to understand. Put
yourself in my place... _I'm in love_."

"But it's no use," Teresa repeated stolidly. "It's no use." She was
fighting doggedly with her back to the wall, fighting for love, and for
something only less precious than love, the preservation of her own
position among her neighbours. In the estimation of the village Teresa
Mallison was a social success. Lady Cassandra had "taken her up," and
while other girls hung on season after season without sign of an
admirer, Teresa at twenty-two had become engaged to the most eligible
bachelor of the neighbourhood. At the present moment she had reached
the zenith of her success, and was actually visiting "in the county."
Only those who have had their habitation in country towns can realise
the devastating burden of public opinion. In the first bitterness of
disappointed love, Teresa could still think with a shudder of what
"they" would say; could imagine eyes peering from behind short blinds,
hear the jangle of the bell announcing callers, sympathetically curious,
and full of commiseration for the "Poor Dear!..." It was torture to
Teresa to think of becoming a Poor Dear!

"It's no use. You can't live here. It would onl