l to a man, or nothing?"

"You must be all to me, or nothing."

She sat down in an arm-chair in that part of the room that was in
shadow. She always sat instinctively in shadow when she wanted to think.

"Well?" Sir Hugh said. "What are you thinking?"

She glanced up at him. "That you don't look much like a beggar," she
said.

"It is possible to feel tattered in a frock-coat and patent-leather
boots," he answered. "Good-bye. I am going back to my crossing." And he
moved towards the door.

"No, stop!" she exclaimed. "Before you go, tell me one thing."

"What is it?"

"Will you ever ask me to marry you again?"

He looked hard into her eyes. "I shall always want to, but I shall never
do it," he said slowly.

"I am glad you have told me that. We women depend so much on a
repetition of the offence, when we blame a man for saying he loves us,
and ask him not to do it again. If you really mean only to propose once,
I must reconsider my position."

She was laughing, but the tears stood in her eyes.

"Why do you want to make this moment a farcical one?" he asked rather
bitterly.

"Oh, Hugh!" she answered, "don't you see? Because it is really--really
so tragic. I only try to do for this moment what we all try to do for
life."

"Then you love me?" he said, moving a step forward.

"I never denied that," she replied. "I might as well deny that I am a
woman."

He held out his arms. "Eve--then I shall never go back to the crossing."

But she drew back. "Go--go there till to-morrow! To-morrow afternoon I
will see you; and if you love me after that--"

"Yes?"

She turned away and pressed the bell. "Good-bye," she said. Her voice
sounded strange to him.

He came nearer, and touched her hand; but she drew it away.

"You may kiss me," she said.

"Eve!"

"After to-morrow."

The footman came in answer to the bell. Mrs Glinn did not turn round. "I
only rang for you to open the door for Sir Hugh," she said. "Good-bye
then, Sir Hugh. Come at five."

"I will," he answered, wondering.

When he had gone, Mrs Glinn sat down in a chair and took up a French
novel. It was by Gyp. She tried to read it, with tears running over her
cheeks. But at last she laid it down.

"After to-morrow," she murmured. "Ah, why--why does a woman ever love
twice?" And then she sobbed.

But the canary sang, and the motes danced merrily in the sunbeams. And
on the table where she had put it down lay "_Le Mariage de Chiffon_."

II