atiently. "After all, it is you who
want to speak. Silence, to me, is golden. But it occurred to me in the
silent watches of the night," with another, now rather forced, little
laugh, "that if you once said to me all you had to say, you would be
contented, and go away and not trouble me any more."

"I can do that now, without saying anything," says he slowly. He has
dropped her hand; he is evidently deeply wounded.

"Can you?"

Her eyes are resting relentlessly on his. Is there magic in them? Her
mouth has taken a strange expression.

"I might have known how it would be," says Dysart, throwing up his head.
"You will not forgive! It was but a moment--a few words, idle,
hardly-considered, and----"

"Oh, yes, considered," says she slowly.

"They were unmeant!" persists he, fiercely. "I defy you to think
otherwise. One great mistake--a second's madness--and you have ordained
that it shall wreck my whole life! You!--That evening in the library at
the court. I had not thought of----"

"Ah!" she interrupts him, even more by her gesture--which betrays the
first touch of passion she has shown--than by her voice, that is still
mocking. "I knew you would have to say it!"

"You know me, indeed!" says he, with an enforced calmness that leaves
him very white. "My whole heart and soul lies bare to you, to ruin it as
you will. It is the merest waste of time, I know; but still I have felt
all along that I must tell you again that I love you, though I fully
understand I shall receive nothing in return but scorn and contempt.
Still, to be able even to say it is a relief to me."

"And what is it to me?" asks the girl, as pale now as he is. "Is it a
relief--a comfort to me to have to listen to you?"

She clenches her hands involuntarily. The fan falls with a little crash
to the ground.

"No." He is silent a moment, "No--it is unfair--unjust! You shall not be
made uncomfortable again. It is the last time.... I shall not trouble
you again in this way. I don't say we shall never meet again.
You"--pausing and looking at her--"you do not desire that?"

"Oh, no," coldly, politely.

"If you do, say so at once," with a rather peremptory ring in his tone.

"I should," calmly.

"I am glad of that. As my cousin is a great friend of mine, and as I
shall get a fortnight's leave soon, I shall probably run over to
Ireland, and spend it with her. After all"--bitterly--"why should I
suppose it would be disagreeable to you?"

"It was qui