"True," I said. "But even if she again loves me she has no further claim whatever upon me, for we mutually agreed to separate and have both long been free." "And if she thought that I loved you?" Eva asked. In an instant I guessed the reason of her disinclination to listen to my avowal. She feared the jealousy of her friend! "She would only congratulate us," I answered. "Surely you have no cause for uneasiness in that direction?" "Cause for uneasiness!" she repeated, starting, while at that same instant the colour died from her sweet face. Next second, however, she recovered herself, and with a forced smile said, "Of course I have no cause. Other circumstances, however, prevent us being more than friends." "And may I not be made aware of them?" I inquired in vague wonder. "No," she said quickly. "Not now. It is quite impossible." "But all my future depends upon your decision," I urged. "Do not answer lightly, Eva. You must surely have seen that I love you?" "Yes," she answered, sighing. "I confess to having seen it. Every woman knows instinctively when she is loved and when despised. The knowledge has caused me deep, poignant regret." "Why?" "Because," and she hesitated. "Because I have dreaded this day. I feared to tell you the truth." "You haven't told me the truth," I said, looking her straight in the face. "I have," she protested. "The truth is, then, that you would love me, only you dare not," I said clearly. "Is that so?" She nodded, her eyes again downcast, and I saw that hot tears were in them--tears she was unable longer to repress. When the heart is fullest of love, and the mouth purest with truth, there seems a cruel destiny in things which often renders our words worst chosen and surest to defeat the ends they seek. "Then whom do you fear?" I asked, after a pause. She shook her head. Only a low sob escaped her. "May we not love in secret," I suggested, "if it is really impossible to love openly?" "No, no!" she said, lifting her white hand in protest. "We must not love. I tell you that it is all a dream impossible of realisation. To-day we must part. Leave me, and we will both forget this meeting." "But surely you will not deliberately wreck both our lives, Eva?" I cried, dismayed. "Your very words have betrayed that you really entertain some affection for me, although you deny it for reasons that are inexplicable. Why not be quite plain and straightforward, as I am?" "I have been quite clear," she answered. "I tell you that we can never love one another." "Why?" "For a reason which some day ere long will be made plain to you," she answered in a low voice, her pure countenance at that moment drawn and ashen pale. "In that day you will hate my very name, and yet will think kindly of my memory, because I have to-day refused to listen to you and have given you your freedom."