lasts a lifetime. You have no right to
pronounce so confidently upon her fitness or unfitness to mate with me;
your knowledge of her is very slight. I know her as a woman can only be
known by the man who loves her. You cannot judge for me in this case;
no one could judge for me. I shall act on my conviction; it is poor
waste of life to do otherwise.'

A pause, whereof the seconds were to one ear beaten out in
heart-throbs. Then Mrs. Ormonde said, very quietly:

'You have told Mr. Grail of this intention?'

'Yes.'

'It has never occurred to you that the great wrongs this man has
suffered might yet be repaired, perchance, if you were willing to let
them be?'

'I have suffered on his account more than I can say. But it is certain
that he and Thyrza would never marry after this.'

'I see no such certainty.'

'Then it merely comes to this, that he and I love the same woman, and
must abide by her decision.'

'The library?'

'Gone. I can give no thought to it, for I am suffering a greater lose.
Be human! Be honest! Would you not despise me if, loving her as I do, I
came to you and puled about the overthrow of my schemes for founding a
public library? Let it go! Let the people rust and rot in ignorance! I
am a man of flesh and blood, and the one woman that the world contains
is lost to me!'

Mrs. Ormonde seemed to think long over this passionate outcry. Egremont
broke the silence.

'Once more, be human! She writes to her sister that she has been ill,
but is now taken care of by friends. What friends? You are not ignorant
of the world. How small a chance it is that she has fallen among people
who will protect her! A girl with her beauty, and so simple, so
trustful--friends, indeed! I am all but frenzied to think of the
dangers that may surround her. She is more to me than my life's blood,
and perhaps even now she is in terrible need of some honest man to
protect her. And you can talk coldly about prudence, about what we
shall think and say years hence! Well, I can talk no more. To-morrow
morning I shall go back to London and go on searching for her, walking
about the streets day and night, wearing my life away in longing for
her. I have done with the past, and all those I used to call my
friends. There is no room in my thought for anything but her memory and
the desire to find her. Let us say good-bye, Mrs. Ormonde. If I am
wrong and selfish as you say, then it is beyond my power to conquer the
faults.'

The li