back forever on the world where there was a Margot Lorenzi, and
gossiping people, and newspapers.

But he had to go on. "There's a woman," he said, "who--perhaps she cares
for me--I don't know. Anyhow, she'd suffered through our family. I felt
sorry for her. I--I suppose I admired her. She's handsome--or people
think so. I can hardly tell how it came about, but I--asked her to marry
me, and she said yes. That was--late last winter--or the beginning of
spring. Then she had to go to Canada, where she'd been brought up--her
father died in England, a few months ago, and her mother, when she was a
child; but she had friends she wanted to see, before--before she
married. So she went, and I came to Algiers, to visit Nevill. Good
heavens, how banal it sounds! How--how different from the way I feel!
There aren't words--I don't see how to make you understand, without
being a cad. But I must tell you that I didn't love her, even at first.
It was a wish--a foolish, mistaken wish, I see now--and I saw long ago,
the moment it was too late--to make up for things. She was unhappy,
and--no, I give it up! I can't explain. But it doesn't change things
between us--you and me. I'm yours, body and soul. If you can forgive me
for--for trying to make you care, when I had no right--if, after knowing
the truth, you'll take me as I am, I----"

"Do you mean, you'd break off your engagement?"

Perhaps it was partly the effect of the green shadows, but the girl
looked very pale. Except for her eyes and hair, and the red rose that
was like a wound over her heart, there was no colour about her.

"Yes, I would. And I believe it would be right to break it," Stephen
said, forcefully. "It's abominable to marry some one you don't love, and
a crime if you love some one else."

"But you must have cared for her once," said Victoria.

"Oh, cared! I cared in a way, as a man cares for a pretty woman who's
had very hard luck. You see--her father made a fight for a title that's
in our family, and claimed the right to it. He lost his case, and his
money was spent. Then he killed himself, and his daughter was left
alone, without a penny and hardly any friends----"

"Poor, poor girl! I don't wonder you were sorry for her--so sorry that
you thought your pity was love. You couldn't throw her over now, you
know in your heart you couldn't. It would be cruel."

"I thought I couldn't, till I met you," Stephen answered frankly. "Since
then, I've thought--no, I haven