ithheld, according to the softness of the masculine heart and
the beauty of the suppliant feminine form. Guy Oscard was quite sure of
his own impressions. This girl had allowed him to begin loving her,
had encouraged him to go on, had led him to believe that his love was
returned. And in his simple ignorance of the world he did not see why
these matters should be locked up in his own breast from a mistaken
sense of chivalry to be accorded where no chivalry was due.

"No," he answered. "There is nothing more to be said."

Without looking towards her, Jack Meredith made a few steps towards the
door--quietly, self-composedly, with that perfect savoir-faire of the
social expert that made him different from other men. Millicent Chyne
felt a sudden plebeian desire to scream. It was all so heartlessly
well-bred. He turned on his heel with a little half-cynical bow.

"I leave my name with you," he said. "It is probable that you will be
put to some inconvenience. I can only regret that this--denouement did
not come some months ago. You are likely to suffer more than I, because
I do not care what the world thinks of me. Therefore you may tell the
world what you choose about me--that I drink, that I gamble, that I am
lacking in--honour! Anything that suggests itself to you, in fact. You
need not go away; I will do that."

She listened with compressed lips and heaving shoulders; and the
bitterest drop in her cup was the knowledge that he despised her. During
the last few minutes he had said and done nothing that lowered him in
her estimation--that touched in any way her love for him. He had not
lowered himself in any way, but he had suavely trodden her under foot.
His last words--the inexorable intention of going away--sapped her last
lingering hope. She could never regain even a tithe of his affection.

"I think," he went on, "that you will agree with me in thinking that
Guy Oscard's name must be kept out of this entirely. I give you carte
blanche except that."

With a slight inclination of the head he walked to the door. It was
characteristic of him that although he walked slowly he never turned his
head nor paused.

Oscard followed him with the patient apathy of the large and mystified.

And so they left her--amidst the disorder of the half-unpacked wedding
presents--amidst the ruin of her own life. Perhaps, after all, she was
not wholly bad. Few people are; they are only bad enough to be wholly
unsatisfactory and quite