"It seems to me that you hardly know what you are saying," said Lady Swansdown quickly. "Do you think then that women do not feel, do not suffer as men never do? What wild thoughts torment your brain that you should put forward so senseless a question?--one that has been answered satisfactorily thousands of years ago. All the pain, the suffering of earth lies on the woman's shoulders; it has been so from the beginning--it shall be so to the end. On being thrust forth from their Eden, which suffered most do you suppose, Adam or Eve?" "It is an old story," says he gloomily, "and why should you, of all people, back it up? You--who----" "Better leave me out of the question." "You!" "I am outside your life, Baltimore," says she, laying her hand on the back of the seat beside her, and sinking into it. "Leave me there!" "Would you bereave me of all things," says he, "even my friends? I thought--I believed, that you at least--understood me." "Too well!" says she in a low tone. Her hands have met each other and are now clasped together in her lap in a grip that is almost hurtful. Great heavens! if he only knew--could he then probe, and wound, and tempt! "If you do----" begins he--then stops short, and passing her, paces to and fro before her in the dying light of the moon. Lady Swansdown leaning back gazes at him with eyes too sad for tears--eyes "wild with all regret." Oh! if they two might but have met earlier. If this man--this man in all the world, had been given to her, as her allotment. "Beatrice!" says he, stopping short before her, "were you ever in love?" There is a dead silence. Lady Swansdown sinking still deeper into the arm of the chair, looks up at him with strange curious eyes. What does he mean? To her--to put such a question to her of all women! Is he deaf, blind, mad--or only cruel? A sort of recklessness seizes upon her. Well, if he doesn't know, he shall know, though it be to the loss of her self-respect forever! "Never," says she, leaning a little forward until the moonbeams gleam upon her snowy neck and arms. "Never--never--until----" The pause is premeditated. It is eloquence itself! The light of heaven playing on her beautiful face betrays the passion of it--the rich pallor! One hand resting on the back of the seat taps upon the iron work, the other is now in Baltimore's possession. "Until now----?" suggests he boldly. He is leaning over her. She shakes her head. But in this negative there is only affirmation. His hand tightens more closely upon hers. The long slender fingers yield to his pressure--nay more--return it; they twine round his. "If I thought----" begins he in a low, stammering tone--he moves nearer to her, nearer still. Does she move toward him? There is a second's hesitation on his part, and then, his lips meet hers!