'Dear Ida,' said he, longing, but not venturing to take her hand (he had been on the point of saying 'darling'--had he not been privileged once to do so?), 'I am so glad to find you thus alone, for I have much to say, too, that cannot brook interruption.' 'Say on, then, Jerry,' said she, knowing too surely it would be 'the old, old story,' while his devotion seemed to touch and pain her, for she did honour and pity him, as she had already admitted. 'Ida, save on that night in the conservatory, I have hitherto, from motives that you must be well aware of--motives most pure and honourable--never spoken to you of the love that my heart has never, never ceased to feel for you.' 'Love is no word for me to listen to now, Jerry.' 'Not from--from _me_?' 'Even from you, Jerry.' 'I implore you to be mine, Ida. Do not weep--do not turn away--you stand alone now; this recent marriage has made your home a broken one; I, too, am alone, and each needs the love of the other. Do not trifle with me, Ida!' 'Trifle--I--oh, Jerry Vane.' 'You loved me once!' he urged, drawing very near. 'Yes--I loved you once,' she said, vaguely and wearily. _Once!_ How cruel the speech sounded, though she did not mean it to be so, of course; for as she turned to him, an infinite tenderness filled her sparkling eyes of grey or violet blue--for times there were when they seemed both; and his met them with something wistful and pathetic in their gaze as he said: 'Ida, dearest Ida, time and separation--separation that seemed as if it would be lifelong, have but strengthened the regard I bear you; and now--now----' 'That I am free, you would say?' 'I entreat you to be mine. Your father would wish it, and I know that dear Clare does. All my brightest hopes and associations, all my fondest memories are of you; and all have been bound up now in the hope that we might yet be so happy, beloved Ida.' 'Do not address me thus,' said she, imploringly, as she covered her eyes with her slender fingers tightly interlaced. 'Ah--why?' he asked, entreatingly, and venturing to put a hand lightly on each side of her little waist; but she stepped back, and said in a low and concentrated voice: 'Because--how shall I say it? Each time you speak thus the strange thrill I spoke of passes through me.' 'A thrill?' 'A shudder!' she answered, 'What causes it?' 'I cannot, cannot tell' 'My poor Ida! your nerves are all unstrung, and that absurd book of Reichenbach's has made you worse. Promise to marry me, Ida, and we will go to Switzerland, to Scotland, or anywhere that the breezes of mountains or the sea may restore you to what you once were, even as fate has restored you to me!' But the lovely head was shaken sadly, and the pale face was turned to the distant landscape. The passion with which he loved her was of a quality certainly very rare in the world of 'society,' she knew that.