“Twice a day, if you like.” “I think I shall succeed--in time.” “I hope you may.” Then he kissed her hand devotedly--the first time in his life--and went away on wings. Zoe flew up to her aunt Maitland, flushed and agitated. “Aunt, I am as good as engaged to him. I have said such unguarded things. I'm sure _he_ will understand it that I consent to receive his addresses as my lover. Not that I really said so.” “I hope,” said Aunt Maitland, “that you have committed yourself somehow or other, and cannot go back.” “I think I have. Yes; it is all over. I cannot go back now.” Then she burst out crying. Then she was near choking, and had to smell her aunt's salts, while still the tears ran fast. Miss Maitland received this with perfect composure. She looked on them as the last tears of regret given to a foolish attachment at the moment of condemning it forever. She was old, and had seen these final tears shed by more than one loving woman just before entering on her day of sunshine. And now Zoe must be alone, and vent her swelling heart. She tied a handkerchief round her head and darted into the garden. She went round and round it with fleet foot and beating pulses. The sun began to decline, and a cold wind to warn her in. She came, for the last time, to a certain turn of the gravel walk, where there was a little iron gate leading into the wooded walk from the meadows. At that gate she found a man. She started back, and leaned against the nearest tree, with her hands behind her. It was Edward Severne--all in black, and pale as death; but not paler than her own face turned in a moment. Indeed, they looked at each other like two ghosts. CHAPTER XXIV. ZOE was the first to speak, or rather to gasp. “Why do you come here?” “Because _you_ are here.” “And how dare you come where I am?--now your falsehood is found out and flung into my very face!” “I have never been false to you. At this moment I suffer for my fidelity.” _“You_ suffer? I am glad of it. How?” “In many ways: but they are all light, compared with my fear of losing your love.” “I will listen to no idle words,” said Zoe sternly. “A lady claimed you before my face; why did you not stand firm like a man, and say, 'You have no claim on me now; I have a right to love another, and I do?' Why did you fly?--because you were guilty.” “No,” said he, doggedly. “Surprised and confounded, but not guilty. Fool! idiot! that I was. I lost my head entirely. Yes, it is hopeless. You _must_ despise me. You have a right to despise me.” “Don't tell me,” said Zoe: “you never lose your head. You are always self-possessed and artful. Would to Heaven I had never seen you!” She was violent. He gave her time. “Zoe,” said he, after a while, “if I had not lost my head, should I have ill-treated a lady and nearly killed her?”