had not the power
ever to break my chains. Pray let me hear from you and
know if I shall be so happy as to see you to-night."

But to all his protestations and appeals she returns no response. If she
is deaf to the pleadings of love she must, he determined, at least give
him her pity. He writes to tell her that he is "extreme ill with the
headache," and craves a word of sympathy, as a beggar craves a crust. He
vows, in his pain,

"by all that is good I love you so well that I wish from
my soul that if you cannot love me, I may die, for life
could be to me one perpetual torment. If the Duchess,"
he adds, "sees company I hope you will be there; but if
she does not, I beg you will then let me see you in your
chamber, if it be but for one hour. If you are not in the
drawing-room you must then send me word at what hour I
shall come."

At last the iceberg thaws a little--though it is only to charge him with
unkindness! She assumes the _role_ of virtue; and, with a woman's
capriciousness, charges her lover with the coldness and neglect which
she herself has visited on him.

"Your not writing to me," she says, "made me very uneasy,
for I was afraid it was want of kindness in you, which I
am sure I will never deserve by any action of mine."

Was ever wayward woman so unjust? For weeks Churchill had been deluging
her with ardent letters, to which she had not deigned to answer one
word. Now she assumes an air of injured innocence, and accuses _him_ of
unkindness! She even promises to see him, but cannot resist the
temptation to qualify the concession with a gibe.

"That would hinder you," she says, with delicious, if
cruel satire, "from seeing the play, which I fear would
be a great affliction to you, and increase the pain in
your head, which would be out of anybody's power to ease
until the next new play. Therefore, pray consider; and,
without any compliment to me, send me word if you can
come to me without any prejudice to your health."

At any rate, the Sphinx had spoken and shown that she had some feeling,
if only that of pique and unreason; and the despairing lover was able to
take a little heart. After all, coquetry, even if carried to the verge
of cruelty, holds more promise than Arctic coldness.

But the course of love, which could scarcely be said to have even begun,
was not to run at all smoothly. Sir Winston Ch