tly. Yet, as he saw her yielding, he was filled
with the strangest mixture of passion--and a sort of disillusion--almost
contempt! If she had turned from him with the dignity worthy of that
head and brow, it flashed across him that he could have tasted more of
the _abandonment_ of love--have explored his own emotion more perfectly.

Still, the situation was poignant enough--in one sense complete. Was
Raeburn still there--in that next room?

"My answer?" he said to her, pressing her hand as they sat in the
shelter of the flowers. For _he_ was aware of the practical facts--the
hour, the place--if she was not.

She roused herself.

"I can't," she said, making a movement to rise, which his strong grasp,
however, prevented. "I _can't_ answer you to-night, Mr. Wharton. I
should have much to think over--so much! It might all look quite
different to me. You must give me time."

"To-morrow?" he said quietly.

"No!" she said impetuously, "not to-morrow; I go back to my work, and I
must have quiet and time. In a fortnight--not before. I will write."

"Oh, impossible!" he said, with a little frown.

And still holding her, he drew her towards him. His gaze ran over the
face, the warm whiteness under the lace of the dress, the beautiful
arms. She shrank from it--feeling a sudden movement of dislike and fear;
but before she could disengage herself he had pressed his lips on the
arm nearest to him.

"I gave you no leave!" she said passionately, under her breath, as he
let her go.

He met her flashing look with tender humbleness.

"_Marcella_!"

The word was just breathed into the air. She wavered--yet a chill had
passed over her. She could not recover the moment of magic.

"_Not_ to-morrow," she repeated steadily, though dreading lest she
should burst into tears, "and not till I see clearly--till I can--" She
caught her breath. "Now I am going back to Lady Winterbourne."

CHAPTER XIV.

For some hours after he reached his own room, Wharton sat in front of
his open window, sunk in the swift rushing of thought, as a bramble
sways in a river. The July night first paled, then flushed into morning;
the sun rose above the empty street and the light mists enwrapping the
great city, before he threw himself on his bed, exhausted enough at last
to fall into a restless sleep.

The speculation of those quick-pulsed hours was in the end about equally
divided between Marcella and the phrases and turns of his interview with