you know what first made me long to get away from the theatre?" he
said, in a low voice. "It was those places there. It was
Strathaivron--and you."

"I, Mr. Moore?"

And now he had to go on; he had taken his fate in his hands; there was
some kind of despairing recklessness in his brain; his breath came and
went quickly and painfully as he spoke.

"Well, I must tell you now, whatever comes of it. I must tell you the
truth--you may think it madness--I cannot help that. What I want to do
is to give up the theatre altogether. I want to let all that go, with a
past never to be regretted--never to be recalled. I want to make for
myself a new future--if you will share it with me."

"Mr. Moore!"

Their eyes met; hers frightened, his eagerly and tremblingly expectant.

"There, now you know the truth. Will you say but one word? Honnor--may I
hope?"

He sought to take her hand, but she shrank back a step--not in anger,
but apparently quite stupefied.

"Oh, no, no, Mr. Moore," she said, piteously. "What have I done? How
could I imagine you were thinking of any such thing? And--and on my
account--that you should dream of making such a sacrifice--giving up
your reputation and your position--"

Where was his acting now?--where the passionate appeal he would have
made on the stage? He stood stock-still--his eyes bent earnestly on
hers--and he spoke slowly:

"It is no sacrifice. It is nothing. I wish for another life--but with
you--with you. Have you one word of hope to give me?"

He saw his answer already.

"I cannot--I cannot," she said, with downcast eyes, and obviously in
such deep distress that his heart smote him.

"It is enough," said he. "I--I was a fool to deceive myself with such
imaginings--that are far beyond me. You will forgive me, Miss Honnor; I
did not wish to cause you any pain; why, what harm is done except that I
have been too presumptuous and too frank--and you will forget that. Tell
me you forgive me!"

He held out his hand; she took it for a moment; and for another moment
he held hers in a firm grasp.

"If I could tell you," he said, in a low voice, "what I thought of
you--what every one thinks of you--you might perhaps understand why I
have dared to speak."

She withdrew her hand quickly; her mother was at the door. When Lady
Cunyngham came into the room, her daughter was apparently turning over
those photographs and engravings. Lionel went forward to the elder lady
to pay his respects; there