“Sweetheart,” he whispered, hoarsely, “is this the best greeting you have for me?” “Why have you absented yourself, Sir Harold, without one word of explanation?” she asked, with studied coldness. He instantly resented this by saying: “Absented myself? The last time I called you appeared to be enjoying more congenial society.” “It is a relief to be beyond range of your unreasonable temper sometimes,” Lady Elaine said. “Oh, my love, this is terrible for me to bear!” “You think only of yourself, Sir Harold.” Her lips quivered. “You think only of yourself. I have been too childish and yielding.” “It is the duty of woman to yield,” he retorted. “I beg to differ with you. I do not propose to be your slave,” Lady Elaine responded, bitterly. There was silence for a little while--a silence that neither ever forgot. “We must have an understanding, Elaine,” Sir Harold said, at last. “Do not let false pride stand between us, my darling. I was angry when I heard that you were out with Rivington. I saw you together, and it maddened me. I do not think it right for an engaged woman to listen to the flattery of any man.” She laughed musically. “No? I suppose that you consider me your slave? I object to being any man’s slave, Sir Harold.” “Listen to me, my dear love,” he pleaded. “Who speaks of slavery! Oh, why will you misunderstand me? Have I not lavished upon you the whole wealth of my affection? Are you not my ideal of all that is good and beautiful in woman?” “And yet you do not trust me. I cannot understand such love as that,” Elaine said. He held out his arms, and she was not proof against this, but her determination to maintain her independence remained unshaken. Had she not already scored a victory? For a few minutes he caressed her fondly, his face rapturously happy. “There is only one thing now,” he told her, “that stands between us and heaven itself. Can you guess what it is, darling?” “No,” she replied. “How should I know?” “Then I will tell you, dear.” He held her away from him at arm’s length. “I want you to promise me that you will not ride out with Viscount Rivington again?” She drew away from him, her head erect. “It is impossible, Sir Harold; I am not your wife yet, remember!” “Impossible!” he echoed. “Why, may I ask?” “I decline to answer. If the Viscount desires my society I cannot very well refuse it. He is an old friend and neighbor. As your wife you may command me, but again I repeat I am not yet your wife.” “And never will be,” Sir Harold replied, with terrible calmness, “unless you respect my wishes now.” She endeavored to slip his ring from her finger, but was seized with an awful faintness.