he two which might be the more bitter it was not mine to
judge, but I burned to gather her to me, to comfort and cherish her, to
make her one with me, and thus, whilst giving her something of my man's
height and strength, cull from her something of that pure, noble spirit,
and thus sanctify my own.

I had a moment's weakness when she spoke. I was within an ace of
advancing and casting myself upon my knees like any Lenten penitent, to
sue forgiveness. But I set the inclination down betimes. Such expedients
would not avail me here.

"What I have to say, mademoiselle," I answered after a pause, "would
justify a saint descending into, hell; or, rather, to make my metaphor
more apt, would warrant a sinner's intrusion into heaven."

I spoke solemnly, yet not too solemnly; the least slur of a sardonic
humour was in my tones.

She moved her head upon the white column of her neck, and with the
gesture one of her brown curls became disordered. I could fancy the
upward tilt of her delicate nose, the scornful curve of her lip as she
answered shortly "Then say it quickly, monsieur."

And, being thus bidden, I said quickly "I love you, Roxalanne."

Her heel beat the shimmering parquet of the floor; she half turned
towards me, her cheek flushed, her lip tremulous with anger.

"Will you say what you have to say, monsieur?" she demanded in a
concentrated voice, "and having said it, will you go?"

"Mademoiselle, I have already said it," I answered, with a wistful
smile.

"Oh!" she gasped. Then suddenly facing round upon me, a world of anger
in her blue eyes--eyes that I had known dreamy, but which were now
very wide awake. "Was it to offer me this last insult you forced your
presence upon me? Was it to mock me with those words, me--a woman, with
no man about me to punish you? Shame, sir! Yet it is no more than I
might look for in you."

"Mademoiselle, you do me grievous wrong--" I began.

"I do you no wrong," she answered hotly, then stopped, unwilling haply
to be drawn into contention with me. "Enfin, since you have said what
you came to say will you go?" And she pointed to the door.

"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle--" I began in a voice of earnest
intercession.

"Go!" she interrupted angrily, and for a second the violence of her
voice and gesture almost reminded me of the Vicomtesse. "I will hear no
more from you."

"Mademoiselle, you shall," I answered no whit less firmly.

"I will not listen to you. Talk if you will. Y