"I have heard nothing," he answered. "I have been given no reason; you just told me you could not marry me the other night, and you were so upset and shaken that I did not press the matter any further. You know, of course, that I can give you everything now that the heart of girl could desire." "Do not talk of those things," I said. "I would marry you if you had only a hundred a year; I would marry you if you had nothing a year, provided we could earn our living together. O Jim! I love you so much, I love you so much, so much." I covered my face with my hands, a deep, dry sob came from my throat. "Then if that is so," he answered, half bending towards me and yet restraining himself, "why will you not marry me?" "I cannot, because--because----" "Take your own time," he said then; "don't speak in a hurry. If you love me as you say you love me, and if you know that I love you, and if you know also, which I think you do, that your mother wished it, and all your friends wish it, why should not we two spend our lives together, shoulder to shoulder, dear, in the thick of the fight, all our lives close together until death does us part? And even death does not really part those who love, Westenra, so we shall in reality never be parted if we do so sincerely love. Why should not these things be?" "Because I am bound to another man," I said then. He started away, a stern look came into his face. "Say that again," was his answer, after a full minute of dead silence. "I am engaged to another," I said faintly. "And yet you have dared to say that you love me?" "It is true." "In that case you do not love the man to whom you have given your promise?" "I do not." "But what does this mean? This puzzles me." He put up his hand to his forehead as if to push away a weight. He was standing up, and the pallor of his face frightened me. "I do not understand," he said. "I had put you on a pedestal--are you going to prove yourself common clay after all? but it is impossible. Who is the other man?" Then I told him. He uttered a sharp exclamation, then turned on his heel and walked away to the window. He stood there looking out, and I looked at him as his figure was silhouetted against the sky. After a time he turned sharply round and came back to me and sat down. He did not sit close to me as he had done before, but he spoke quietly, as if he were trying to keep himself in control. "This is very sudden and terrible," he said; "very inexplicable too. I suppose you will explain?" "I will," I said. "I knew you were coming to-night; I was cowardly enough to wish that you would not come, but I will explain." "You are engaged to the man I used to see you talking to at 17 Graham Square?" "Yes," I said; "do not speak against him." "I would not be so cruel," he answered. "If you have promised yourself to him, he must merit some respect; tell me the story."