“You led me to believe you cared for me--you gave to me looks and words such as you gave to no other man--you let me kiss your lips and did not say me nay; then, when I had grown bold through your kindness, and prayed the prayer that for long months had been on my lips, you slew me with cruel, scornful words.” “I do not understand you,” she said, quietly. “You will not, rather. I say again, Hermione, that you have played with me more cruelly than a cat plays with a mouse. You have laughed at my torture.” “You are speaking most falsely,” she said. “Let God judge between us. I lay the ruin of my life upon you. I say you deliberately deceived me.” “I deny it,” she replied. “How could I be cruel or false to you. I have had no opportunity of being either. I have never heard of you or seen you but once since the evening of my birthday!” “You have written to me, and it is of your written words I complain.” “I have never in all my life written one line to you,” she said, earnestly. “You have never written to me, Hermione? Ah, do not stain those lips with a lie!” “I never have,” she repeated, with a deep-drawn sob. “Listen! I swear it before the most high God.” And then for some minutes they stood looking bewildered and wonderingly at each other. CHAPTER XXIII. BAD MADE WORSE. Sir Ronald came nearer to Lady Hermione; his face was white and stern, his eyes gleamed with an angry light. “Let me ask you a plain question, Lady Hermione. Perhaps this conversation had been better left alone. Having commenced it, I must know more than you have said. You must not refuse to answer me. Either you are deceiving me now, or I have been tricked more foully than man ever was before. I must know which it is.” “I am not deceiving you; why should I? Deceit is foreign to me; I abhor it. I repeat what I have said. It is possible that I may have addressed cards of invitation to you; but in my whole life I have never written to you one single letter.” Looking into her pale, sweet face, where all truth, purity and goodness reigned, it was not possible to doubt her. “Hermione,” he said, more gently, “you remember the evening of the ball?” “Yes,” she said, sadly, “I remember it well.” “We stood among the roses, you and I, the moon shining, the distant sound of music floating near us. You did not chide me when I kissed your lips, and I--oh, blind fool that I was!--I looked upon that kiss as a solemn betrothal.” She shrank from the passionate tones of his voice, then looked at him. “I made the same mistake,” she said, simply, “and I have paid very dearly for it.” “Then, for a whole week afterward, Hermione, I went to Leeholme every day. I tried hard to find an opportunity of speaking to you; you were always surrounded by people. There were times, even, when I imagined you felt a delight in baffling what you must have known to be my heart’s desire.” “It was but a girlish delight in mischief,” she interrupted; “and, ah me! the bitter price I have paid.”