He advanced towards her, and in spite of her determination to be firm, she took a step or two backwards before she held out her hand, and said with tolerable firmness: "Lady Henry has gone out in the carriage." "And will not be back just yet," he said with a smile. "Ah, well, it does not matter." He had taken her hand and pressed it firmly, retaining it in his, and before Ruth could realise it he had drawn her to him, and pressed his lips to hers. "Mr Montaigne!" she cried, struggling to free herself. "This is an insult!" "What! from me?" he whispered, his face flushing, and his arms clasping her more tightly. "Why, what nonsense, Ruth! You know how I have loved you from the time you were a child, and have always meant that you should some day be my little wife." "Oh no! It is impossible! Mr Montaigne, are you mad?" She cast a despairing glance at the bell, but it was beyond her reach, and he smiled as he kissed her passionately again and again. "Why are you left alone?" he said in a hoarse whisper; "because fate has arranged it expressly for us. See how I have patiently waited for an opportunity, ever since that night when we were surprised in each other's arms by that wretched servant. Why, Ruth, Ruth, my little one, what is the use of this struggling? It is absurd. You are a woman now--the woman I have always loved. It is our secret, darling, and--" "Help! help!" cried Ruth loudly as the door opened and Marie walked in, Mr Paul Montaigne, carried away by his passion, having failed to hear the carriage stop, quite a couple of hours sooner than he had expected. "What is the meaning of this?" cried Marie fiercely, as Ruth ran to her arms, panting and sobbing with shame. "Marie--why did you leave me? He--insulted--this man--" "Is a villain who hides his true nature beneath a mask," cried Marie indignantly. "I always doubted him. How comes he to be alone here with you? Leave the house, sir! Lord Henry shall be made acquainted with the conduct of his guest." Marie placed Ruth in a chair, and was crossing towards the bell, when Montaigne said quietly: "Ah, yes; poor Lord Henry! He does not know us all by heart." Marie stopped as if she had been stung, and faced round, darting an indignant glance at Montaigne, who, in place of leaving the room, coolly walked to one of the mirrors, and readjusted his white tie. Marie recovered herself, and had her hand upon the bell, when Montaigne said quietly: "Don't be foolish, my dear; exposures are such awkward things." "For you, sir," cried Marie. "Then leave the house, and never enter it again. But for the fact of your being so old a friend, I would have you turned out." "Words, words, words, my dear Marie," he said, taking a chair and crossing his legs. "Let me see. It is Hamlet says that, I think. Now look here, my dear child--but sit down, I want to talk to you." "Will you leave this room, sir?" cried Marie angrily.