t send for him," she murmured. "I wouldn't send for him. But
now he will come, yes, he'll come now."

Carford, driven half-mad by an outburst which his own device had caused,
moved by whatever of true love he had for her, and by his great rage and
jealousy against me, fairly ran at her and caught her by the wrist.

"Why do you talk of him? Do you love him?" he said from between clenched
teeth.

She looked at him, half-angry, half-wondering. Then she said,

"Yes."

"Nell Gwyn's lover?" said Carford.

Her cheek flushed again, and a sob caught her voice as it came.

"Yes," said she. "Nell Gywn's lover."

"You love him?"

"Always, always, always." Then she drew herself near to him in a sudden
terror. "Not a word, not a word," she cried. "I don't know what you are,
I don't trust you; forgive me, forgive me; but whatever you are, for
pity's sake, ah, my dear lord, for pity's sake, don't tell him. Not a
word!"

"I will not speak of it to M. de Fontelles," said Carford.

An amazed glance was followed by a laugh that seemed half a sob.

"M. de Fontelles! M. de Fontelles! No, no, but don't tell Simon."

Carford's lips bent in a forced smile uglier than a scowl.

"You love this fellow?"

"You have heard."

"And he loves you?"

The sneer was bitter and strong. In it seemed now to lie Carford's only
hope. Barbara met his glance an instant, and her answer to him was,

"Go, go."

"He loves you?"

"Leave me. I beg you to leave me. Ah, God, won't you leave me?"

"He loves you?"

Her face went white. For a while she said nothing; then in a calm quiet
voice, whence all life and feeling, almost all intelligence, seemed to
have gone, she answered,

"I think not, my lord."

He laughed. "Leave me," she said again, and he, in grace of what
manhood there was in him, turned on his heel and went. She stood alone,
there on the terrace.

Ah, if God had let me be there! Then she should not have stood desolate,
nor flung herself again on the marble seat. Then she should not have
wept as though her heart broke, and all the world were empty. If I had
been there, not the cold marble should have held her, and for every
sweetest tear there should have been a sweeter kiss. Grief should have
been drowned in joy, while love leapt to love in the fulness of delight.
Alas for pride, breeder of misery! Not life itself is so long as to give
atonement to her for that hour; though she has said that one moment, a
certain moment, was