m her that is cruelly akin to a cry. "There is too much to
remember," says she, suddenly.

"You think you would be wronging her," says Baltimore, reading her
correctly. "I have told you you are at fault there. She would bless the
chance that swept me out of her life. And as for me, I should have no
regrets. You need not fear that."

"Ah, that is what I do fear," says she in a low tone.

"Well, you have decided," says he, after a pause. "After all why should
I feel either disappointment or surprise? What is there about me that
should tempt any woman to cast in her lot with mine?"

"Much!" says Lady Swansdown, deliberately. "But the one great essential
is wanting--you have no love to give. It is all given." She leans toward
him and regards him earnestly. "Do you really think you are in love with
me? Shall I tell you who you are in love with?" She lets her soft cheek
fall into her hand and looks up at him from under her long lashes.

"You can tell me what you will," says he, a little impatiently.

"Listen, then," says she, with a rather broken attempt at gayety, "you
are in love with that good, charming, irritating, impossible, but most
lovable person in the world--your own wife!"

"Pshaw!" says Baltimore, with an irritated gesture. "We will not discuss
her, if you please."

"As you will. To discuss her or leave her name out of it altogether will
not, however, alter matters."

"You have quite made up your mind," says he, presently, looking at her
searchingly. "You will let me go alone into evil?"

"You will not go," returns she, trying to speak with conviction, but
looking very anxious.

"I certainly shall. There is nothing else left for me to do. Life here
is intolerable."

"There is one thing," says she, her voice trembling. "You might make it
up with her."

"Do you think I haven't tried," says he, with a harsh laugh "I'm tired
of making advances. I have done all that man can do. No, I shall not try
again. My one regret in leaving England will be that I shall not see you
again!"

"Don't!" says she, hoarsely.

"I believe on my soul," says he, hurriedly, "that you do care for me.
That it is only because of her that you will not listen to me."

"You are right!" (in a low tone)--"I--" Her voice fails her, she presses
her hands together. "I confess," says she, with terrible abandonment,
"that I might have listened to you--had I not liked her so well."

"Better than me, apparently," says he, bitterly. "She