When this became intolerable, the fairy-like apparition in tulle, wrestling with the situation, on a war footing with her own feelings, lifted from a glowing face those _lapis lazuli_ eyes of hers--pure stones liquified by soul action--to his face and dropped them. In one swift turn of those eyes she had taken in as much of that stern, cold, accusing face as she could well bear. But there was nothing on it she had not expected to see. She knew the unrelenting disdain of that proud nature for what is stained, unworthy, unwomanly, as well as she knew its strength to esteem, its gift to exalt, its power to bless. And to look into a once loving face now grown cold, and to find there no longer an indulgent smile nor approving aspect, is not an experience to be coveted, even by the happiest. "You are enjoying it, I hope," said at length a low mocking voice. "Enjoying it!" retorted plucky Mell, "of course I am enjoying it! Why shouldn't I? I am probably enjoying it as much as you are!" "More, I hope. I, for one, never did enjoy being miserable." "Oh, miserable!" exclaimed Mell, in a lively tone. His misery appeared to put her in the highest spirits. "Going to marry a rich girl and feeling miserable over it, how is that? You ought to be as happy, almost, as I am!" "The happiness which needs to be so extolled," replied Jerome, with a sardonic laugh, "rests on a slim foundation. Mine is of a different stamp. It leads me to envy the very worms as they crawl under my feet. Even a worm is free to go where his wishes lead him--even a worm is free to find an easy death and quick, when life becomes insupportable." Mell pressed her hand upon her heart, beating so fast--that pent-up heart in a troubled breast, which rose and fell as a storm-tossed vessel amid tempestuous seas. "You cannot blame me for it," said she wildly. "You slighted me, you trifled with me, you goaded me to it! I would do it again; if need be!" "Once has been enough," Jerome told her, in sadness. Speech was an effort to him; when a man regards some treasure, once his own now lost to him, he thinks much, but he has little to say. That little, nine times out of ten, would better be left unsaid. Jerome felt it so; for a long time he said nothing more--he only continued to look at the woman he had lost. She continued to contemplate the floor, until those polished boards, waxed in readiness for gay dancers' feet, became to her a sorry sight indeed, and a source of nervous irritation. When their glances encountered again, hers was full of passionate entreaty, his of inflamed regret. "I have a question to put to you," he broke forth, harshly. "What right have you to marry Rube Rutland, loving me?" "The same right that you have to marry Clara Rutland, loving me!"