ame person I was then. But, all the same, what I
did then does not matter a straw to me now. To all practical purposes I
am another man. I was then a youth, idle, _desoeuvre_, playing with all
the keys of life in turn. I have now unlocked the path that suits me.
Its quest has transformed me--as I believe, ennobled me. I do not ask
Raeburn or any one else to believe it. It is my own affair. Only, if we
ever meet again in life, you and I, and you think you have reason to ask
humiliation of me, do not ask it, do not expect it. The man you will
have in your mind has nothing to do with me. I will not be answerable
for his sins."

As he said these things he was leaning lightly forward, looking up at
her, his arms resting on the back of one of the old chairs, one foot
crossed over the other. The attitude was easy calm itself. The
tone--indomitable, analytic, reflective--matched it. Yet, all the same,
her woman's instinct divined a hidden agitation, and, woman-like,
responded to that and that only.

"Mr. Raeburn will never tell me old stories about anybody," she said
proudly. "I asked him once, out--out of curiosity--about you, and he
would tell me nothing."

"Generous!" said Wharton, drily. "I am grateful."

"No!" cried Marcella, indignantly, rushing blindly at the outlet for
emotion. "No!--you are not grateful; you are always judging him
harshly--criticising, despising what he does."

Wharton was silent a moment. Even in the moonlight she could see the
reddening of his cheek.

"So be it," he said at last. "I submit. You must know best. But you? are
you always content? Does this _milieu_ into which you are passing always
satisfy you? To-night, did your royalty please you? will it soon be
enough for you?"

"You know it is not enough," she broke out, hotly; "it is insulting that
you should ask in that tone. It means that you think me a
hypocrite!--and I have given you no cause--"

"Good heavens, no!" he exclaimed, interrupting her, and speaking in a
low, hurried voice. "I had no motive, no reason for what I
said--none--but this, that you are going--that we are parting. I spoke
in gibes to make you speak--somehow to strike--to reach you. To-morrow
it will be too late!"

And before, almost, she knew that he had moved, he had stooped forward,
caught a fold of her dress, pressed it to his lips, and dropped it.

"Don't speak," he said brokenly, springing up, and standing before her
in her path. "You shall forgive me--I w