“I’m going to tell you something,” he said. “Love is no more wonderful than hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is less fierce, and not as strong.” “What!” she whispered, bewildered at the sinister change in him. “And I want to tell you another thing. I am alone in the world. What I have, I have devised to you--in case I step out--suddenly--” He paused, hesitated, then: “Also I desire you to hear something else,” he went on. “This is the proper time for you to hear it, I think--now--to-night--” He lifted his blazing eyes and looked at the other man. “There was a woman,” he said--“She happened to be my wife. Also there was my closest friend: and myself. The comedy was cast. Afterward she died--abroad. I believe he was there at the time--Kept up a semblance--But he never married her.... And I do not intend to marry--you.” After a moment: “And that,” she whispered, “is why you once said to me that I should have let you alone.” “Did I say that to you?” “Yes.” She looked up at him, straight into his eyes: “But if you care for me--I do not regret that I did not let you alone.” “I shall not marry you.” Her lip trembled but she smiled. “That is nothing new to me,” she said. “Only one man has offered that.” “Why didn’t you take him?” he asked, with an ugly laugh. “I couldn’t. I cared for you.” “And now,” he said, “are you afraid of me?” “Yes--a little.” He leaned forward suddenly, “You’d better steer clear of me!” Her startled eyes beheld in him a change as swift as his words. “Fair warning!” he added: “look out for yourself.” Everything that was brutal in him; everything ruthless and violent had marred his features so that all in a moment the mouth had grown ugly and a hard, bruised look stamped the pallid muscles of his features and twitched at them. “You’re taking chances from now on,” he said. “I told you once to let me alone. You’d better do it now. And--” he stared at the distant man--“I told you that hate is more vital than love. It is. I’ve waited a long time to strike. Even now it isn’t in me to do it as I have meant to do it. And so I tell you to keep away from me; and I’ll strike in the old-fashioned way, and end it--to-night.” Stunned by his sudden and dreadful metamorphosis, her ears ringing with his disjointed incoherencies, she rose, scarcely knowing what she was doing, scarcely conscious that he was beside her, moving lightly and in silence out into the brilliant darkness of the streets. It was only at her own door that he spoke again: standing there on the shabby steps of her boarding-house, the light from the transom yellowing his ghastly face. “Something snapped”--he passed an unsteady hand across his eyes;--“I care very deeply for you. I--they’ll make over to you--what I have. You can study on it--live on it, modestly--” “W-what is the matter? Are you ill?” she stammered, white and frightened.