ean. I have felt it for a very long time. You do
not care for me as you used to do."

"Upon my soul, I do!" cried Oliver, very sincerely.

"Then you never cared for me very much."

This was getting serious. Oliver had no mind to break off his
engagement. He reserved the right to snub Ethel without giving offence.
If this was an impracticable course to pursue, it was evident that he
must abandon it and eat humble pie. Anything rather than part from her
just now. He had lost the woman he loved: it would not do to lose also
his only chance of winning a competency for himself and immunity from
fear of want in the future.

"Ethel," he said, softly, "you grieve me very much. I acknowledge my
faults of temper--I did not think you mistook then for a want of love."

"I do not think I do. It is something more real, more tangible than
that."

"What is it, dear?"

She paused, then looked keenly into his face. "It seems to me, Oliver,
that Lesley Brooke has won your heart away from me."

He threw back his head and laughed--a singularly jarring and unpleasant
laugh, as it seemed to her. "What will you imagine next?" he said.

"Imagine? Have I imagined it? Isn't it true that you have been at her
house almost every day for the last three or four weeks? Do you come
here as often? Is it not Lesley that attracts you?--not me!"

"Oh, so you are jealous!"

"Yes, I suppose I am. It is only natural, I think."

They faced each other for a moment, defiantly, almost fiercely. There
was a proud light in Ethel's eyes, a compression of the lips which told
that she was not to be trifled with. Oliver stood pale, with frowning
brows, and eyes that seemed to question both the reality of her feeling
and the answer that he should make to her demand. It was by a great
effort of self-control that at last he answered her with calmness--

"I assure you, Ethel, you are utterly mistaken. What have I in common
with a girl like Miss Brooke--one of the most curiously ignorant and
wrong-headed persons I ever came across? Can you think for a moment that
I should compare her with you?--_you_, beautiful and gifted and cultured
above most women?"

"That is nothing to the point," said Ethel, quickly. "Men don't love
women because of their gifts and their culture."

"No," he rejoined, "but because of some subtle likeness or
attractiveness which draws one to the other. I find it in you, without
knowing why. You--I hoped--found it----"

His voice becam