ered. Don't you see, dear, we really must get married at
Pernambuco? That is what I wanted to signal to the cruiser: 'The
_Unser Fritz_ is taking a happy couple to church.' Wouldn't that have
been a surprise?"

Iris clenched her little hands in despair. Why did he not understand
her misery? Though she was unwavering in her resolution to keep faith
with the man who had twitted her with taking all and giving nothing in
return, she could not wholly restrain the tumult in her veins. Married
in Pernambuco! Ah, if only that were possible! Yet she did not flinch
from the lover-like scrutiny with which Philip now favored her.

"I am sure we would be happy together," she said, with a pathetic
confidence that tempted him strongly to take her in his arms and kiss
away her fears. "But we must be brave, Philip dear, brave in the
peaceful hours as in those which call for another sort of courage.
Last night we lived in a different world. We looked at death, you and
I together, not once but many times, and you, at least, kept him at
bay. But that is past. To-day we are going back to the commonplace.
We must forget what happened in the land of dreams. I will never love
any man but you, Philip; yet--I cannot marry you."

"You will marry me--in Pernambuco."

"I will not because I may not. Oh, spare me any more of this! I
cannot bear it. Have pity, dear!"

"Iris, let us at least look at the position calmly. Do you really
think that fate's own decree should be set aside merely to keep David
Verity out of the Bankruptcy Court?"

"I have given my promise, and those two men are certain I will keep it."

"Ah, they shall release you. What then?"

"You do not know my uncle, or Mr. Bulmer. Money is their god. They
would tell you that money can control fate. We, you and I, might
despise their creed, but how am I to shirk the claims of gratitude? I
owe everything to my uncle. He rescued my mother and me from dire
poverty. He gave us freely of his abundance. Would you have me fail
him now that he seeks my aid? Ah, me! If only I had never come on
this mad voyage! But it is too late to think of that now. Perhaps--if
I had not promised--I might steel my heart against him--but, Philip,
you would never think highly of me again if I were so ready to rend the
hand that fed me. We have had our hour, dear. Its memory will never
leave me. I shall think of you, dream of you, when, it may be, some
other girl--oh, no, I do