, she of the ruddy tresses and peach-blow cheek.

"My dear Madeline," said he slowly, holding her hand with intimate
pressure, "I cannot permit you to betray yourself for me. You are--"

"Quite old enough in the ways of the world," she interjected, "to know
my own mind. I love you, Guy, and unless I've mistaken your attitude,
you love me. When our minds meet in such a matter, why should anything
be permitted to intervene?" Her hand still lay in his; her eyes held
his; her personality fairly enveloped them. With lips a little parted,
she bent toward him. "It's a bit unusual, dear, for the woman to
propose, to the man, but we are an unusual two, and the business of life
has shaken us free from the conventions of the drawing-room and frothy
society. With us there need be no cant nor pretence nor false modesty,
because there is not the slightest possibility of misunderstanding."

"And yet, Madeline, we may not defy the right and permit you to
sacrifice yourself," he opposed. "There is a standard which neither cant
nor pretence nor false modesty can affect--the standard of honour."

"Honour!" she inflected. "What is honour, such honour, when a woman
loves."

"Nothing--and therefore must the love abide; honour can't abide once it
is lost."

She shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid it's not so much my honour as your
love," she said. "A week ago, and I would have had a different
answer--in fact, I would have been the one to answer and _you_ the one
to ask. You know it quite as well as I; for when you left me that
afternoon in Paris, expecting to return in the evening, you were ready
to speak and I was ready with the answer. Then fate, in the person of an
unsympathetic Foreign Office intervened, and sent you on the instant to
St. Petersburg. We never met again until in this hotel. I have not
changed, but you have. I fear your answer does not ring quite true; it
isn't like you. Why is it, Guy?"

Never a reference to Mrs. Clephane; never an intimation--and yet Mrs.
Clephane might as well have been in the room, so living was her
presence.

"Madeline," said he, lingeringly freeing her hand, "I hardly know what
to say nor how to say it. I'm embarrassed, frightfully embarrassed; yet
you have been frank with me so I must be frank with you--even though it
hurts. I'm distressed to have been such a bungler, such a miserable
bungler, such a blind fool, indeed. The false impression must be due to
me; assuredly, without the most justif