"I think I have acknowledged that," says he, coldly. He rises abruptly and goes over to where she is standing on the hearthrug--shading her face from the fire with a huge Japanese fan. "Have I ever denied your charm?" His tone has been growing in intensity, and now becomes stern. "Why do you talk to me like this? What is the meaning of it all--your altered manner--everything? Why did you grant me this interview?" "Perhaps because"--still with that radiant smile, bright and cold as early frost--"like that little soapy boy, I thought you would 'not be happy till you got it.'" She laughs lightly. The laugh is the outcome of the smile, and its close imitation. It is perfectly successful, but on the surface only. There is no heart in it. "You think I arranged it?" "Oh, no; how could I? You have just said I arranged it." She shuts up her fan with a little click. "You want to say something, don't you?" says she, "well, say it!" "You give me permission, then?" asks he, gravely, despair knocking at his heart. "Why not--would I have you unhappy always?" Her tone is jesting throughout. "You think," taking the hand that holds the fan and restraining its motion for a moment, "that if I do speak I shall be happier?" "Ah! that is beyond me," says she. "And yet--yes; to get a thing over is to get rid of fatigue. I have argued it all out for myself, and have come to the conclusion----" "For yourself!" "Well, for you too," a little impatiently. "After all, it is you who want to speak. Silence, to me, is golden. But it occurred to me in the silent watches of the night," with another, now rather forced, little laugh, "that if you once said to me all you had to say, you would be contented, and go away and not trouble me any more." "I can do that now, without saying anything," says he slowly. He has dropped her hand; he is evidently deeply wounded. "Can you?" Her eyes are resting relentlessly on his. Is there magic in them? Her mouth has taken a strange expression. "I might have known how it would be," says Dysart, throwing up his head. "You will not forgive! It was but a moment--a few words, idle, hardly-considered, and----" "Oh, yes, considered," says she slowly. "They were unmeant!" persists he, fiercely. "I defy you to think otherwise. One great mistake--a second's madness--and you have ordained that it shall wreck my whole life! You!--That evening in the library at the court. I had not thought of----" "Ah!" she interrupts him, even more by her gesture--which betrays the first touch of passion she has shown--than by her voice, that is still mocking. "I knew you would have to say it!"