“Then it’s you who part us,” he cried passionately. “You don’t love me, Clemence! You can’t ever have loved me!” There was a moment’s pause, and then her answer came in a strange, still voice. “I do love you!” she said. “I love you so that I would give my life to blot out what you’ve said!” A dead silence--a silence in which Julian Romayne seemed to feel something pulling and straining at his heart-strings. Then with a reckless, desperate effort he tore himself away from its influence and spoke. “It can’t be helped, then,” he said fiercely and defiantly. “You must go your own way until you come to your senses! Some day, perhaps, you’ll be grateful to me for refusing to make fools of us! I wouldn’t have believed it of you, Clemence! You make me almost sorry that I ever saw you. Now, look here; I’ve put it to you from every point of view; I’ve tried as hard as ever I can to make you understand, and if you won’t, you won’t! As to the money, of course, I can’t hear of your not taking that. I shall send you so much regularly every month--it won’t be very much either, but it’ll be enough to keep you--and, of course, you’ll have to spend it. But you need not be afraid that I shall want to see you again until you come to a more sensible frame of mind.” He waited, but again there was no answer, and again some influence from her still presence discomfited him, and made him hurry on. “I’m going now!” he said roughly. “Good-bye, Clemence!” He made a movement as though to go, without a tenderer farewell, but quite suddenly his heart failed him. He turned again and took her into his arms impulsively and tenderly. “Clemmie!” he said brokenly. “I say--Clemmie!” Her arms were round his neck pressing him closely and more closely, with a desperate, agonised pressure, and a long, clinging kiss was on his cheek. “Don’t keep me waiting long,” she whispered hoarsely. “You will do it at last. I know, I know you will. But--don’t keep me waiting long!” She released him and drew herself gently out of his arms, and Julian turned and stumbled out of the room and down the stairs, the most consciously contemptible young man in London, and with no strength to act upon his consciousness. CHAPTER X “You admire it, Mrs. Romayne? It strikes you as true? Ah, but that is very charming of you!”