"You know me, indeed!" says he, with an enforced calmness that leaves him very white. "My whole heart and soul lies bare to you, to ruin it as you will. It is the merest waste of time, I know; but still I have felt all along that I must tell you again that I love you, though I fully understand I shall receive nothing in return but scorn and contempt. Still, to be able even to say it is a relief to me." "And what is it to me?" asks the girl, as pale now as he is. "Is it a relief--a comfort to me to have to listen to you?" She clenches her hands involuntarily. The fan falls with a little crash to the ground. "No." He is silent a moment, "No--it is unfair--unjust! You shall not be made uncomfortable again. It is the last time.... I shall not trouble you again in this way. I don't say we shall never meet again. You"--pausing and looking at her--"you do not desire that?" "Oh, no," coldly, politely. "If you do, say so at once," with a rather peremptory ring in his tone. "I should," calmly. "I am glad of that. As my cousin is a great friend of mine, and as I shall get a fortnight's leave soon, I shall probably run over to Ireland, and spend it with her. After all"--bitterly--"why should I suppose it would be disagreeable to you?" "It was quite a natural idea," says she, immovably. "However," says he, steadily, "you need not be afraid that, even if we do meet, I shall ever annoy you in this way again----" "Oh, I am never afraid," says she, with that terrible smile that seems to freeze him. "Well, good-bye," holding out his hand. He is quite as composed as she is now, and is even able to return her smile in kind. "So soon? But Barbara will be down to tea in a few minutes. You will surely wait for her?" "I think not." "But really do! I am going to see after the children, and give them some chocolate I bought for them." "It will probably make them ill," says he, smiling still. "No, thank you. I must go now, indeed. You will make my excuses to Mrs. Monkton, please. Good-bye." "Good-bye," says she, laying her hand in his for a second. She has grown suddenly very cold, shivering: it seems almost as if an icy blast from some open portal has been blown in upon her. He is still looking at her. There is something wild--strange--in his expression. "You cannot realize it, but I can," says he, unsteadily. "It is good-bye forever, so far as life for me is concerned." He has turned away from her. He is gone. The sharp closing of the door wakens her to the fact that she is alone. Mechanically, quite calmly, she looks around the empty room. There is a little Persian chair cover over there all awry. She rearranges it with a critical eye to its proper appearance, and afterward pushes a small chair into its place. She pats a cushion or two, and, finally taking up her bonnet and the pins she had laid upon the chimney-piece, goes up to her own room. Once there----