ngue, but the temptation of her bliss was
too great; the contained ardour of long years had its way, sweeping
doubt and memory before it.

'For your sake I have done it all. What do I care for a whole world's
praise, compared with one word of recognition from you! You remember the
morning when you told me of my faults, when we all but seemed to
quarrel? Ah! I have faults in abundance still, but have I not done one
thing worth doing, done it thoroughly, as net everyone could? I am not
only a woman of the world, of society and fashion? Do I not know how
contemptible that is? But only you could raise me above it.'

He left her, in a bewildered state; she had excited, impassioned him;
but how strange it all was after those other scenes of love! It seemed
so of the earth; the words he had spoken rang over again in his ears,
and stirred his blood to shame. He could not say whether in truth he
loved her or not; was it enough to feel that he could cherish her with
much tenderness, and intoxicate himself in gazing on her perfect face?
Women are so different! Emily had scarcely spoken when he made known to
her his love; could he ever forget that awe-struck face, dimly seen in
the moonlight? Her words to the end had been few; it was her eyes that
spoke. Beatrice was noble, and had a heart of gold; was there not heaven
in that ardour of hers, if only it had been his soul's desire?
Henceforth it must be; she loved him, and he must not wrong her. Alas!
the old name, the old name alone, was still star-written....

He passed with her the afternoon of each Sunday. Mrs. Birks' house was a
large one, and Beatrice had abundance of room to herself. Thither
Wilfrid took his way on the Sunday which we have reached, the day
following his drawing-room triumph. Already he was a little ashamed of
himself; he was experiencing again the feeling which had come over him
after his first speech to a political meeting. As he went home that
night, a demon in his head kept crying 'Clap-trap! clap-trap!' and there
was no silencing the voice. He had talked to the intelligence of the
mob. Now his talk had been addressed to--the representatives of the mob;
if the demon did not cry so loudly, it was only because he was weary of
his thankless task.

Beatrice was a superb coquette--but only for the man she loved. For
these Sunday afternoons she attired herself divinely; Wilfrid had learnt
to expect a new marvel at each of his comings. To-day she wore her
fav