“Ah!” said Zoe, sharply, “that is what you have been suffering from--remorse. And well you may. You ought to go back to her, and ask her pardon on your knees. Indeed, it is all you have left to do now.” “I know I ought.” “Then do what you ought. Good-by.” “I cannot. I hate her.” “What, because you have broken her heart, and nearly killed her?” “No; but because she has come between me and the only woman I ever really loved, or ever can.” “She would not have done that if you had not given her the right. I see her now; she looked justice, and you looked guilt. Words are idle, when I can see her face before me still. No woman could look like that who was in the wrong. But you--guilt made you a coward: you were false to her and false to me; and so you ran away from us both. You would have talked either of us over, alone; but we were together: so you ran away. You have found me alone now, so you are brave again; but it is too late. I am undeceived. I decline to rob Mademoiselle Klosking of her lover; so good-by.” And this time she was really going, but he stopped her. “At least don't go with a falsehood on your lips,” said he, coldly. “A falsehood!--Me!” “Yes, it is a falsehood. How can you pretend I left that lady for you, when you know my connection with her had entirely ceased ten months before I ever saw your face?” This staggered Zoe a moment; so did the heat and sense of injustice he threw into his voice. “I forgot that,” said she, naively. Then, recovering herself, “You may have parted with her; but it does not follow that she consented. Fickle men desert constant women. It is done every day.” “You are mistaken again,” said he. “When I first saw you, I had ceased to think of Mademoiselle Klosking; but it was not so when I first left her. I did not desert her. I tore myself from her. I had a great affection for her.” “You dare to tell me that. Well, at all events, it is the truth. Why did you leave her, then?” “Out of self-respect. I was poor, she was rich and admired. Men sent her bouquets and bracelets, and flattered her behind the scenes, and I was lowered in my own eyes: so I left her. I was unhappy for a time; but I had my pride to support me, and the wound was healed long before I knew what it was to love, really to love.” There was nothing here that Zoe could contradict. She kept silence, and was mystified. Then she attacked him on another quarter. “Have you written to her since you behaved like a ruffian to her?” “No. And I never will, come what may. It is wicked of me; but I hate her. I am compelled to esteem her. But I hate her.” Zoe could quite understand that; but in spite of that she said, “Of course you do. Men always hate those they have used ill. Why did you not write to _me?_ Had a mind to be impartial, I suppose?” “I had reason to believe it would have been intercepted.” “For shame! Vizard is incapable of such a thing.”