‘Lizzie, you are very hard upon me! I am not perfect, any more than other men, but I don’t know what I can have done to merit such bitter taunts from you. At all events, try and know me now as the man who loves you, and entreats you to marry him. Lizzie, be my wife! Mr Courtney is aware of our attachment, and has made a very generous offer of assistance, if we marry each other. If your affection for me was ever true, you will not refuse me now.’ ‘My affection for you _was_ true,’ replied Lizzie, looking him full in the face; ‘and all the more does that make me say I will never marry you now. _Never!_ Not if there was not another man in the world.’ ‘But _why_? Surely you will give me a reason for your refusal, Lizzie.’ ‘My reason is soon given, monsieur. Maraquita--my earliest friend and my adopted sister--was here last night. She came to ask permission to see the child, of whom both of you have accused me of being the mother, and I refused her. I told her since I had to bear the blame, I would also maintain the authority over it. And then--in a moment of passion, I suppose--somewhat like that moment which influenced you basely to get out of your engagement to me by means of a lie--she told me the name of the child’s father. _Now_, do you wonder that I say that henceforth there never can be any communion between you and me, except of the most ordinary kind. The man who could take advantage of his own sin to ruin the character of an innocent woman, will never make a good husband to any one, and I have done with you for ever!’ Henri de Courcelles turned his face away to the open window, the dark blood mantling for very shame into his cheeks. ‘I have nothing to say for myself,’ he muttered presently. ‘I am only a man, and men are very open to temptations such as these. But if I have sinned, I have also suffered. I was led on by a heartless woman, who has deserted her child, and thrown me over for the first suitor who presents himself with money and position in his hands. I would have married her willingly, but she refused to marry me. She is an infernal jilt, with as false a heart and tongue as ever woman had; and she has been my ruin. She is nothing to me now, and she never will be. If you took compassion on me, Lizzie, and healed my sore heart with your pure affection, you should never have reason to complain of even my thoughts straying that way. I hate the very name of her.’ ‘That is no palliation of your fault, in my eyes, monsieur. I should feel for you more if you told me her desertion had made you miserable. But why do you not appeal to Mr Courtney to stop this unnatural marriage? Did he know the truth, he would surely never allow his daughter so to prostitute herself.’