an go
away again."

Jon clutched the paint-stained table. Her face and figure in its frilly
frock photographed itself with such startling vividness upon his eyes,
that if she had sunk through the floor he must still have seen her.

"I know I told you a lie, Jon. But I told it out of love."

"Yes, oh! yes! That's nothing!"

"I didn't answer your letter. What was the use--there wasn't anything to
answer. I wanted to see you instead." She held out both her hands, and
Jon grasped them across the table. He tried to say something, but all
his attention was given to trying not to hurt her hands. His own felt so
hard and hers so soft. She said almost defiantly:

"That old story--was it so very dreadful?"

"Yes." In his voice, too, there was a note of defiance.

She dragged her hands away. "I didn't think in these days boys were tied
to their mothers' apron-strings."

Jon's chin went up as if he had been struck.

"Oh! I didn't mean it, Jon. What a horrible thing to say!" Swiftly she
came close to him. "Jon, dear; I didn't mean it."

"All right."

She had put her two hands on his shoulder, and her forehead down on them;
the brim of her hat touched his neck, and he felt it quivering. But, in a
sort of paralysis, he made no response. She let go of his shoulder and
drew away.

"Well, I'll go, if you don't want me. But I never thought you'd have
given me up."

"I haven't," cried Jon, coming suddenly to life. "I can't. I'll try
again."

Her eyes gleamed, she swayed toward him. "Jon--I love you! Don't give
me up! If you do, I don't know what--I feel so desperate. What does it
matter--all that past-compared with this?"

She clung to him. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. But while
he kissed her he saw, the sheets of that letter fallen down on the floor
of his bedroom--his father's white dead face--his mother kneeling before
it. Fleur's whispered, "Make her! Promise! Oh! Jon, try!" seemed
childish in his ear. He felt curiously old.

"I promise!" he muttered. "Only, you don't understand."

"She wants to spoil our lives, just because--"

"Yes, of what?"

Again that challenge in his voice, and she did not answer. Her arms
tightened round him, and he returned her kisses; but even while he
yielded, the poison worked in him, the poison of the letter. Fleur did
not know, she did not understand--she misjudged his mother; she came from
the enemy's camp! So lovely, and he loved her so-