down the corridor when the door is
again opened, and Lady Baltimore's voice calls after him:

"Baltimore!" Her tone is sharp, high-agonized--the tone of one strung to
the highest pitch of despair. It startles him. He turns to look at her.
She is standing, framed in by the doorway, and one hand is grasping the
woodwork with a hold so firm that the knuckles are showing white. With
the other hand she beckons him to approach her. He obeys her. He is even
so frightened at the strange gray look in her face that he draws her
bodily into the room again, shutting the door with a pressure of the
hand he can best spare.

"What is it?" says he, looking down at her.

She has managed to so far overcome the faintness that has been
threatening her as to shake him off and stand free, leaning against a
chair behind her.

"Don't go," says she, hoarsely.

It is impossible to misunderstand her meaning. It has nothing whatever
to do with his interview with the lawyer waiting so patiently down
below, but with that final wandering of his into regions unknown. She is
as white as death.

"How is this, Isabel?" asks he. He is as white as she is now. "Do you
know what you are saying? This is a moment of excitement; you do not
comprehend what your words mean."

"Stay! Stay for his sake."

"Is that all?" says he, his eyes searching hers.

"For mine, then."

The words seem to scorch her. She covers her face with her hands and
stands before him, stricken dumb, miserable--confessed.

"For yours!"

He goes closer to her, and ventures to take her hand. It is cold--cold
as death. His is burning.

"You have given a reason for my staying, indeed," says he. "But what is
the meaning of it?"

"This!" cried she, throwing up her head, and showing him her shamed and
grief-stricken face. "I am a coward! In spite of everything I would not
have you go--so far!"

"I see. I understand," he sighs, heavily. "And yet that story was a foul
lie! It is all that stands between us, Isabel. Is it not so? But you
will not believe."

There, is a long silence, during which neither of them stirs. They seem
wrapt in thought--in silence--he still holding her hand.

"If it was a lie," says she at last, breaking the quiet around them by
an effort, "would you so far forgive my distrust of you as to be holding
my hand like this?"

"Yes. What is there I would not forgive you?" says he. "And it was a
lie!"

"Cyril," cries she in great agitation, "take care! It i