“She has not taken your love from me, tell me that,” Mrs. Baines said entreatingly. “A few hours ago you assured me of your devotion. She has not taken it from me?” “No.” “I am just the same to you?” she asked. He turned his eyes on her again. “You are just the same,” he said, with a gulp, but there was no tenderness in his manner. He seemed to be speaking almost under compulsion. “My darling, my darling,” she said softly, “bless you for those dear words. I will be truer to you, Alfred, than ever woman was to man before. But I cannot stay here; you must take me away. I have already packed my things, I cannot remain another night, not knowing to what treatment I may be subjected. I love Florence most sincerely; she and Walter and their children are very dear to me. But after her coldness to me last night when I came in full of your love and my own happiness, and she denied me her sympathy, I cannot stay. You must not ask me to do that, Alfred.” There was more interest in his manner now, though his gravity never relaxed. “Where will you go?” he asked. “I shall go to London, my darling,” she said, stretching out her hands. “But I cannot go alone, after all I have suffered during the last twenty-four hours?” He looked at her questioningly. “Suffered? What have you suffered?” he asked. “I thought you were happy about it.” “About you? Yes, my darling; but Florence has tortured me.” “It does not take much to torture you,” he interrupted. “What did she say?” “I have told you already; I cannot go over it again. Don’t ask me to do so. You could torture me, Alfred, with a word or a look—if you ceased to love me.” “We need not discuss that improbability now,” he said solemnly. “What about your going to London?” “I shall go by the quarter-past one o’clock train this afternoon,” she answered. “You will take me, will you not?” “I cannot go to-day,” he said firmly. “I must get back to Liphook now.” He pulled out his watch, a dull worn Waterbury one, at which Aunt Anne looked keenly. “But I will go to-morrow; I want to see my uncle.” His thoughts seemed to be intent on business matters. She waited a moment after he had finished speaking, and winked slowly to herself before she answered. “Alfred,” she asked, “you do truly love me?” He looked at her steadfastly. “Yes,” he answered, “I told you so last night.” She half rose from her chair again, but he waved her back. “Sit down,” he said, and she obeyed. “I know you did, and I will never doubt it. In bygone days, my darling, I was foolish and wicked, and played with the truest love ever given to woman. But I am wiser now. You must never doubt me. Promise me that you never will.” “I promise you,” he said, and closed his lips. “My dear, my dear,” she said softly to herself, and stopped for a moment before she went on aloud, “I must go to town this afternoon, and you must take me. My courage is not equal to encountering the journey alone. Do take me, my darling.”