“To the--bad!” she cried. Her face grew pale; and something appalling, an indistinct vision of horrors, dimly appeared before Frances’ eyes. She seemed to see not only George Gaunt, but his mother weeping, his father looking on with a startled miserable face. “Oh,” she cried, trying to throw off the impression, “you don’t know what you are saying. George Gaunt would never do anything that is bad. You are making some dreadful mistake, or---- Oh, Mr Ramsay, couldn’t you tell him, if you know it is so bad, before----?” “What!” cried Claude, horror-struck. “I tell--a fellow I scarcely know! He would have a right to--kick me, or something--or at least to tell me to mind my own business. No; but you might speak to Markham. Markham is the only man who perhaps might interfere.” “Oh, Markham! always Markham! Oh, I wish any one would tell me what Markham has to do with it,” cried Frances, with a moan. “That’s just one of his occupations,” said Ramsay, calmly. “They say it doesn’t tell much on him one way or other, but Markham can’t live without play. Don’t you think, as Lady Markham does not come in, that you might give me a cup of tea?” CHAPTER XXXVII. Constance Waring had not been enjoying herself in Bordighera. Her amusement indeed came to an end with the highly exciting yet disagreeable scene which took place between herself and young Gaunt the day before he went away. It is late to recur to this, so much having passed in the meantime; but it really was the only thing of note that happened to her. The blank negative with which she had met his suit, the air of surprise, almost indignation, with which his impassioned appeal was received, confounded poor young Gaunt. He asked her, with a simplicity that sprang out of despair, “Did you not know then? Were you not aware? Is it possible that you were not--prepared?” “For what, Captain Gaunt?” Constance asked, fixing him with a haughty look. He returned that look with one that would have cowed a weaker woman. “Did you not know that I--loved you?” he said. Even she quailed a little. “Oh, as for that, Captain Gaunt!--a man must be responsible for his own follies of that kind. I did not ask you to--care for me, as you say. I thought, indeed, that you would have the discretion to see that anything of the kind between us was out of the question.” “Why?” he asked, almost sternly; and Constance hesitated a little, finding it perhaps not so easy to reply. “Because,” she said after a pause, with a faint flush, which showed that the effort cost her something--“because--we belong to two different worlds--because all our habits and modes of living are different.” By this time she began to grow a little indignant that he should give her so much trouble. “Because you are Captain Gaunt, of the Indian service, and I am Constance Waring,” she said, with angry levity. He grew deadly red with fierce pride and shame.