ike you to say all this--but--don't let us deceive ourselves. I
could not be your friend, Lady Merton. I must not come and see you."

She was silent, very pale, her eyes on his--and he went on:

"It is strange to say it in this way, at such a moment; but it seems as
though I had better say it. I have had the audacity, you see--to fall in
love with you. And if it was audacity a week ago, you can guess what it
is now--now when--Ask your mother and brother what they would think of
it!" he said abruptly, almost fiercely.

There was a moment's silence. All consciousness, all feeling in each of
these two human beings had come to be--with the irrevocable swiftness of
love--a consciousness of the other. Under the sombre renouncing passion
of his look, her own eyes filled slowly--beautifully--with tears. And
through all his perplexity and pain there shot a thrill of joy, of
triumph even, sharp and wonderful. He understood. All this might have
been his--this delicate beauty, this quick will, this rare
intelligence--and yet the surrender in her aspect was not the simple
surrender of love; he knew before she spoke that she did not pretend to
ignore the obstacles between them; that she was not going to throw
herself upon his renunciation, trying vehemently to break it down, in a
mere blind girlish impulsiveness. He realised at once her heart, and her
common sense; and was grateful to her for both.

Gently she drew herself away, drawing a long breath. "My mother and
brother would not decide those things for me--oh, _never_!--I should
decide them for myself. But we are not going to talk of them to-day. We
are not going to make any--any rash promises to each other. It is you we
must think for--your future--your life. And then--if you won't give me a
friend's right to speak--you will be unkind--and I shall respect
you less."

She threw back her little head with vivacity. In the gesture he saw the
strength of her will and his own wavered.

"How can it be unkind?" he protested. "You ought not to be troubled with
me any more."

"Let me be judge of that. If you will persist in giving up this
appointment, promise me at least to come to England. That will break
this spell of this--this terrible thing, and give you courage--again.
Promise me!"

"No, no!--you are too good to me--too good;--let it end here. It is
much, much better so."

Then she broke down a little.

She looked round her, like some hurt creature seeking a means of es