not see him. He still bent over her,
whispering into her ear.

"You cannot go," he said. "You will not try to forget--for neither you
nor I can--nor ought, cost what it might. You will not destroy what is
so much to us--you would not, if you could. Look at me, love--do not
turn away. Let me see it all in your eyes, all the truth of it and of
every word I say."

Still she turned her face from him. But she breathed quickly with parted
lips and the colour rose slowly in her pale cheeks.

"It must be sweet to be loved as I love you, dear," he said, bending
still lower and closer to her. "It must be some happiness to know that
you are so loved. Is there so much joy in your life that you can despise
this? There is none in mine, without you, nor ever can be unless we are
always together--always, dear, always, always."

She moved a little, and the drooping lids lifted almost imperceptibly.

"Do not tempt me, dear one," she said in a faint voice. "Let me go--let
me go."

Orsino's dark face was close to hers now, and she could see his bright
eyes. Once she tried to look away, and could not. Again she tried,
lifting her head from the cushioned chair. But his arm went round her
neck and her cheek rested upon his shoulder.

"Go, love," he said softly, pressing her more closely. "Go--let us not
love each other. It is so easy not to love."

She looked up into his eyes again with a sudden shiver, and they both
grew very pale. For ten seconds neither spoke nor moved. Then their lips
met.

CHAPTER XXI.

When Orsino was alone that night, he asked himself more than one
question which he did not find it easy to answer. He could define,
indeed, the relation in which he now stood to Maria Consuelo, for though
she had ultimately refused to speak the words of a promise, he no longer
doubted that she meant to be his wife and that her scruples were
overcome for ever. This was, undeniably, the most important point in the
whole affair, so far as his own satisfaction was concerned, but there
were others of the gravest import to be considered and elucidated before
he could even weigh the probabilities of future happiness.

He had not lost his head on the present occasion, as he had formerly
done when his passion had been anything but sincere. He was perfectly
conscious that Maria Consuelo was now the principal person concerned in
his life and that the moment would inevitably have come, sooner or
later, in which he must have told