"The old story," returns he, "and I am sick of it. I have thrown up my hand. I would have been faithful to her, Beatrice. I swear that, but she does not care for my devotion. And as for me, now----" He throws out his arms as if tired to death, and draws in his breath heavily. "Now?" says she, leaning forward. "Am I worth your acceptance?" says he, turning sharply to her. "I hardly dare to think it, and yet you have been kind to me, and your own lot is not altogether a happy one, and----" He pauses. "Do you hesitate?" asks she very bitterly, although her pale lips are smiling. "Will you risk it all?" says he, sadly. "Will you come away with me? I feel I have no friend on earth but you. Will you take pity on me? I shall not stay here, whatever happens; I have striven against fate too long--it has overcome me. Another land--a different life--complete forgetfulness----" "Do you know what you are saying?" asks Lady Swansdown, who has grown deadly white. "Yes; I have thought it all out. It is for you now to decide. I have sometimes thought I was not entirely indifferent to you, and at all events we are friends in the best sense of the term. If you were a happy married woman, Beatrice, I should not speak to you like this, but as it is--in another land--if you will come with me--we----" "Think, think!" says she, putting up her hand to stay him from further speech. "All this is said in a moment of angry excitement. You have called me your friend--and truly. I am so far in touch with you that I can see you are very unhappy. You have had--forgive me if I probe you--but you have had some--some words with your wife?" "Final words! I hope--I think." "I do not, however. All this will blow over, and--come Cyril, face it! Are you really prepared to deliberately break the last link that holds you to her?" "There is no link. She has cut herself adrift long since. She will be glad to be rid of me." "And you--will you be glad to be rid of her?" "It will be better," says he, shortly. "And--the boy!" "Don't let us go into it," says he, a little wildly. "Oh! but we must--we must," says she. "The boy--you will----?" "I shall leave him to her. It is all she has. I am nothing to her. I cannot leave her desolate." "How you consider her!" says she, in a choking voice. She could have burst into tears! "What a heart! and that woman to treat him so--whilst--oh! it is hard--hard!" "I tell you," says she presently, "that you have not gone into this thing. To-morrow you will regret all that you have now said." "If you refuse me--yes. It lies in your hands now. Are you going to refuse me?" "Give me a moment," says she faintly. She has risen to her feet, and is so standing that he cannot watch her. Her whole soul is convulsed. Shall she? Shall she not? The scales are trembling. That woman's face! How it rises before her now, pale, cold, contemptuous. With what an insolent air she had almost ordered her from her sight. And yet--and yet----