you
believe you possess.'

'Then I am right,' cried he, almost insolently. 'I _have_ hit the blot.'

A glance, a mere glance of haughty disdain, was the only reply she made.

'I am shocked, Maude,' said he at last. 'I am ashamed that we should spend
in this way perhaps the very last few minutes we shall ever pass together.
Heart-broken as I am, I should desire to carry away one memory at least of
her whose love was the loadstar of my existence.'

'I want my letters, Cecil,' said she coldly.

'So that you came down here with mine, prepared for this rupture, Maude? It
was all prearranged in your mind.'

'More discretion--more discretion, or good taste--which is it?'

'I ask pardon, most humbly I ask it; your rebuke was quite just. I was
presuming upon a past which has no relation to the present. I shall not
offend any more. And now, what was it you said?'

'I want my letters.'

'They are here,' said he, drawing a thick envelope fully crammed with
letters from his pocket and placing it in her hand. 'Scarcely as carefully
or as nicely kept as mine, for they have been read over too many times;
and with what rapture, Maude. How pressed to my heart and to my lips, how
treasured! Shall I tell you?'

There was that of exaggerated passion--almost rant--in these last words,
that certainly did not impress them with reality; and either Lady Maude
was right in doubting their sincerity, or cruelly unjust, for she smiled
faintly as she heard them.

'No, don't tell me,' said she faintly. 'I am already so much flattered by
courteous anticipation of my wishes that I ask for nothing more.'

He bowed his head lowly; but his smile was one of triumph, as he thought
how, this time at least, he had wounded her.

'There are some trinkets, Cecil,' said she coldly, 'which I have made into
a packet, and you will find them on your dressing-table. And--it may save
you some discomfort if I say that you need not give yourself trouble to
recover the little ring with an opal I once gave you, for I have it now.'

'May I dare?'

'You may not dare. Good-bye.'

And she gave her hand; he bent over it for a moment, scarcely touched it
with his lips, and turned away.

CHAPTER LXI

A CHANGE OF FRONT

Of all the discomfitures in life there was one which Cecil Walpole did not
believe could possibly befall him. Indeed, if it could have been made a
matter of betting, he would have wagered all he had in the world that no
woman should e