Despite his self-control, Sir Ronald’s face grew deadly pale. He was perfectly silent for some minutes, not daring to trust himself to speak. Then he laughed, little guessing how hollow and bitter was the sound of that laugh. Never would he lay bare this wound of his heart. Men should never laugh at his madness, or women smile at the weakness of his love. None should ever know this fair woman’s hand had struck him. “Did you think that would distress me?” he said. “Why, Miss Severn, you told me almost as much two years ago.” “I did not like to pain you,” she said, gently. “Pain!” he said, mockingly. “Do we live in the old days of constancy and truth, when a man loved but one woman and loved her loyally until he died? How many loves have the children of this generation in a lifetime? A man suffers pain nowadays when he loses a limb or loses his fortune--not when he is unhappy in his love.” She looked at him and something like a sob rose to her lips; his voice was so full of anguish, there was such unutterable woe in his dark eyes. “You must forgive me,” she said, still more gently. “I knew you were unhappy about Lady Hermione in the time past, and I would rather suffer all the pain there is in the world than that you should have the least to bear.” “Would you?” he asked. “Why are you so kind to me, Clarice?” The only answer Clarice Severn gave was a long, deep-drawn sigh. If he could not read why in her face, then should his question never meet with a reply. “Did you not tell me two years ago that there was something of the kind between them?” he repeated. “Yes; but I was not sure. Lady Hermione is so much admired, you know, so beautiful, and has so many lovers.” “True; and it is impossible to tell which she prefers. Who would be one of a crowd? I would have the whole of a woman’s heart, or none.” “You deserve it,” she said, and again Sir Ronald looked at her, wondering why she was so kind. It did not occur to him just then, though afterward he thought of it. “Shall I never grow sane?” he asked himself, as he rode slowly home. “Is my madness to grow deeper as I grow older? I have been away from all the places and scenes connected in my memory with her. I have tried every resource that lay open--study, pleasure, and yet now that I pause to think, I find I love her better than ever. Oh, my God! can I do nothing to save myself from this lingering, hungering fever of love?” He hated himself for what he considered his cowardice. He longed to be free from the chains that bound him, yet he could not free himself. Two years had passed since he received the fatal letter that had been a death warrant to him, and he loved her as deeply and as dearly as on that day, when, full of hope, he had asked her to be his wife.