“Well, unfortunately, I can’t make you think that of him,” said Cyril. “I know perfectly well that if you left Bellaviste, as you propose, he would simply follow you anywhere, and insist upon your marrying him.” “I would never do it,” said Nadia, her lips white. “I never thought you would; but I am afraid it would move Europe to laughter to see the King of Thracia pursuing from place to place a young lady----” “Who was the daughter of a Scythian spy!” cried Nadia, with a fierce laugh. “You are right, Lord Cyril; it would be worse than wrong, it would be ridiculous. And ridicule must never touch any one connected with Lord Cyril Mortimer; he could not endure it, all his relations must be above suspicion in that respect. Well, I will not only leave Bellaviste, but I will write to his Majesty a letter explaining my reason for doing so. Does that satisfy you?” “But--excuse me,” said Cyril; “has my brother ever really asked you to marry him?” “If he had, he would have received his answer already,” returned Nadia. “Most certainly he has not.” “You really must pardon me--but do you intend to write a letter declining a proposal that has never been made to you?” “Why not? You know, and he knows, and I know, that he loves me. Why make all this trouble? You do not wish him to write to me first? I might keep his letter, sell it to a newspaper, make it the groundwork of a scandal that would spread through Europe, who knows? Come, I will write now: you shall tell me what to say if you like.” “Excuse me, but this will never do,” said Cyril, refusing to give way when she tried to pass him and reach the writing-table. “Do you think Caerleon would under any circumstances consent to regard a message in a letter--which was not even written in answer to one from him--as your final decision? He would see at once that there had been outside influence at work, and suspect that you had written under pressure. He must hear everything from your own lips.” “Oh, why must you make it so hard for me? Let me write,” entreated Nadia, standing before him with clasped hands. “It is impossible,” said Cyril, firmly. “You must see him.” “Is it absolutely necessary? Then I suppose I must,” said Nadia, drawing a deep breath. “But remember, Lord Cyril, I will tell no lies. He shall know my reason for refusing him.” “I thought,” said Cyril, “that young ladies considered themselves justified in telling a little fib on such occasions, such as saying that they found they did not care for their suitors in quite the right way, or something of the kind?” “The young ladies with whom you are acquainted may tell fibs,” returned Nadia, with a cool incisiveness that reminded him of her mother, “but I do not. Does it not seem to you hard enough to have to refuse the man who loves me, that you wish me to do it by means of a lie?”