not give him up, that, in spite of his anger, his bitter
railing anger, she would keep him close to her if she only could
do so. But now that he spoke of giving her up, she could not speak
passionately of her love--she who had never yet shown any passion in
her speech to him.

"It has grown on me from day to day; and I have been like a child in
clinging to a hope when I should have known that there was no hope. I
should have known it when you deferred our marriage for three years."

"Two years, George."

"Had it been two years, we should now have been married. I should
have known it when I learned that you and he were in such close
intimacy in London. But now--I know it now. Now at least it is all
over."

"I can only be sorry that you have so long had so much trouble in the
matter."

"Trouble--trouble! But I will not make a fool of myself. I believe at
any rate that you understand me."

"Oh! perfectly, Mr. Bertram."

But she did not understand him; nor perhaps was it very likely that
she should understand him. What he had meant her to understand was
this: that in giving her up he was sacrificing only himself, and not
her; that he did so in the conviction that she did not care for him;
and that he did so on this account, strong as his own love still
was, in spite of all her offences. This was what he intended her to
understand;--but she did not understand the half of it.

"And I may now go?" said she, rising from her chair. The blush of
shame was over, and mild as her words sounded, she again looked the
Juno. "And I may now go?"

"Now go! yes; I suppose so. That is, I may go. That is what you mean.
Well, I suppose I had better go." Not a moment since he was towering
with passion, and his voice, if not loud, had been masterful,
determined, and imperious. Now it was low and gentle enough. Even
now, could she have been tender to him, he would have relented. But
she could not be tender. It was her profession to be a Juno. Though
she knew that when he was gone from her her heart would be breaking,
she would not bring herself down to use a woman's softness. She could
not say that she had been wrong, wrong because distracted by her
misery, wrong because he was away from her, wrong because disturbed
in her spirits by the depth of the love she felt for him; she could
not confess this, and then, taking his hand, promise him that if he
would remain close to her she would not so sin again. Ah! if she
could have done th