Kent turned away his face, so that she should not see him as he fought out within himself a great battle. Had these words only been spoken a day or two ago he would have poured out his love to her in all its honesty and strength. But now she was bound to another irrevocably--now indeed it would give her pain to hear what he foolishly thought would have given her pain to hear before. Then he was restrained by misinterpretation of the meaning of the passion that had come surging into his blood. Now he was held back by finer feelings, ignorant perhaps, quixotic, but such as work in man to the shaping of his nobleness. “It was something I would rather not speak of,” he said at last--“something in my own life. I might have told you then; I was wrong not to; I did it for the best. I can't now. This seems like a cheap way of making mysteries,--perhaps it is one, not very big,--but it is better that it should be one to you. It was no fault of mine, believe me. You do believe me, Clytie, when I say that it was bitter for me to give up your friendship, don't you?” “Yes, Kent,” exclaimed Clytie, “I do believe that you are everything that is true and tender and loyal. You don't know what strength and comfort your sympathy and your brave, frank way of looking at things have been to me. I have wronged you--forgive me.” She rose, held out her hand to him. He took it and raised it to his lips very gently. Her eyes grew a little moist. “You are treating me like a foolish woman, and not _en bon camarade_,” she said in a low voice. “You are no longer my _bon camarade_,” he replied. “You are my very dear lady, whom I will serve till the hour of my death.” A moment or two afterwards she was gone. The next morning Kent left England. CHAPTER XV.