er, that he was unhappy. She knew that
Reckage had never shown so much feeling. Yet had she not given her word
to Reckage? Was it not irrevocable? Was Rennes behaving well in speaking
out--too late? Was it too late? A torrent of questions poured into her
mind. She dragged off her gloves, and spread out her hands, which were
slim and white, and stared at her sapphire engagement ring.

"A weak man submits to destiny," said Rennes, "a strong one makes his
own. It is what we think of ourselves which determines our fate. If I
regard myself as a poor creature, I shall, no doubt, act the part of a
poor creature. But," he added, with an ironical smile, "it is never too
late to give up one's prejudices. I can't stand by and look on any
longer. I intend to leave England for some years. I hope we may never
meet again. Don't answer me, because there is nothing for you to say.
You have been perfectly kind, perfectly charming, perfectly consistent.
You have never deceived me and you have never deceived yourself."

She interrupted him:

"I hope not. Oh, I hope I have never deceived myself--or you."

"I was grateful for your friendship," he said. "I can't be grateful for
it now."

Agnes drew a long breath and murmured random words about the "time." Was
it getting late?

"Yes," replied Rennes, "too late. Did I ever tell you why my father,
with all his prospects, became a drawing-master? He told me that he had
suffered so much learning why he could never paint, nor hope to paint,
that he was determined to devote his knowledge to the service of
apprentices. It seemed to him such an awful thing to mistake one's
vocation. Now I feel that one of us--perhaps both of us, you and I, are
doing even a worse thing. We are deliberately throwing happiness to the
dogs."

"I don't think so," said Agnes, in a trembling voice. "There is duty,
you know; that is something higher than happiness, I believe."

"Are you so sure?"

"Oh, yes!"

"I envy you. I don't even know what you mean by duty. It seems to me
another name for the tyranny of false sentiment."

"Don't disturb my ideas," she exclaimed, with an appealing gesture.
"Don't say these things. They make me wretched. I can't afford to doubt
and question. One must have a few permanent rules of conduct."

"But if they are fantastic, capricious, insincere?"

"I can't argue. I am not clever. I will not change my views. I dare not.
It would make me hate you."

"You are the slave of convent