n, fixing her beautiful eyes upon his face,
"then I saw you, Edward, and for the first time in my life I learnt
what love was, and I think that no woman ever loved like that before.
Other women have had something to care for in their lives, I never had
anything till I saw you. It may be wicked, but it's true."

He turned slightly away and said nothing.

"And yet, dear," she went on in a low voice, "I think it has been one
of the hardest things of all--my love for you. For, Edward," and she
rose and took his hand and looked into his face with her soft full
eyes full of tears, "I should have liked to be a blessing to you, and
not a curse, and--and--a cause of sin. Oh, Edward, I should have made
you such a good wife, no man could have had a better, and I would have
helped you too, for I am not such a fool as I seem, and now I shall do
nothing but bring trouble upon you; I know I shall. And it was my
fault too, at least most of it; don't ever think that I deceive
myself, for I don't; I led you on, I know I did, I meant to--there!
Think me as shameless as you like, I meant to from the first. And no
good can come of it, I know that, although I would not have it undone.
No good can ever come of what is wrong. I may be very wicked, but I
know that----" and she began to cry outright.

This was too much for Edward Cossey, who, as any man must, had been
much touched by this unexpected outburst. "Look here, Belle," he
blurted out on the impulse of the moment, "I am sick and tired of all
this sort of thing. For more than a year my life has been nothing but
a living lie, and I can't stand it, and that's a fact. I tell you what
it is: I think we had better just take the train to Paris and go off
at once, or else give it all up. It is impossible to go on living in
this atmosphere of continual falsehood."

She stopped crying. "Do you really care for me enough for that,
Edward?" she said.

"Yes, yes," he said, somewhat impatiently, "you can see I do or I
should not make the offer. Say the word and I'll do it."

She thought for a moment, and then looked up again. "No," she said,
"no, Edward."

"Why?" he asked. "Are you afraid?"

"Afraid!" she answered with a gesture of contempt, "what have I to be
afraid of? Do you suppose such women as I am have any care for
consequences? We have got beyond that--that is, for ourselves. But we
can still feel a little for others. It would ruin you to do such a
thing, socially and in every other