ould frighten the truth from the
lips of any man whose faith in Gertrude was less strong than mine. Go
to Sir Charles and tell him what I have said to Miss Lindsay, and within
ten minutes I shall have passed these gates with a warning never to
approach them again. I am in your power, and were I in Miss Lindsay's
power alone, my shrift would be short. Happily, Gertrude, though she
sees as yet but darkly, feels that Miss Lindsay is her bitterest foe."

"It is ridiculous. I am not two persons; I am only one. What does it
matter to me if your contempt for me is as illimitable as the stars?"

"Ah, you remember that, do you? Whenever you hear a man talking about
the stars you may conclude that he is either an astronomer or a fool.
But you and a fine starry night would make a fool of any man."

"I don't understand you. I try to, but I cannot; or, if I guess, I
cannot tell whether you are in earnest or not."

"I am very much in earnest. Abandon at once and for ever all misgivings
that I am trifling with you, or passing an idle hour as men do when they
find themselves in the company of beautiful women. I mean what I say
literally, and in the deepest sense. You doubt me; we have brought
society to such a state that we all suspect one another. But whatever is
true will command belief sooner or later from those who have wit enough
to comprehend truth. Now let me recall Miss Lindsay to consciousness by
remarking that we have been out for ten minutes, and that our hostess is
not the woman to allow our absence to pass without comment."

"Let us go in. Thank you for reminding me."

"Thank you for forgetting."

Erskine heard their footsteps retreating, and presently saw the two
enter the glow of light that shone from the open window of the billiard
room, through which they went indoors. Trefusis, a man whom he had seen
that day in a beautiful landscape, blind to everything except a row of
figures in a Blue Book, was his successful rival, although it was
plain from the very sound of his voice that he did not--could not--love
Gertrude. Only a poet could do that. Trefusis was no poet, but a sordid
brute unlikely to inspire interest in anything more human than a public
meeting, much less in a woman, much less again in a woman so ethereal
as Gertrude. She was proud too, yet she had allowed the fellow to insult
her--had forgiven him for the sake of a few broad compliments. Erskine
grew angry and cynical. The situation did not suit his p