‘I’m going to England, Miss Dupuy,’ the poor young mulatto went on in broken accents; ‘I can stand no longer the shame and misery of my own surroundings in this island. You know what they are. Picture them to yourself for a moment. Forget you are a white woman, a member of this old proud unforgiving aristocracy—“for they ne’er pardon who have done the wrong:” forget it for once, and try to think how it would feel to you, after your English up-bringing, with your tastes and ideas and habits and sentiments, to be suddenly set down in the midst of a society like that of the ignorant coloured class here in Trinidad. On the one side, contempt and contumely from the most boorish and unlettered whites; on the other side, utter uncongeniality with one’s own poor miserable people. Picture it to yourself—how absolutely unendurable!’ Nora bethought her silently of Tom Dupuy from both points of view, and answered in a low tone: ‘Dr Whitaker, I recognise the truth of what you say. I—I am sorry for you; I sympathise with you.’ It was a great deal for a daughter of the old slave-owning oligarchy to say—how much, people in England can hardly realise; and Dr Whitaker accepted it gratefully. ‘It’s very kind of you, Miss Dupuy,’ he went on again, the tears rising quickly to his eyes, ‘very, very kind of you. But the struggle is over; I can’t stand it any longer; I mean at once to return to England.’ ‘You will do wisely, I think,’ Nora answered, looking at him steadily. ‘I will do wisely,’ he repeated in a wandering tone. ‘Yes, I will do wisely. But, Miss Dupuy, strange to say, there is one thing that still binds me down to Trinidad.—Oh, for heaven’s sake, listen to me, and don’t condemn me unheard.—No, no, I beg of you, don’t rise yet! I will be brief. Hear me out, I implore of you, I implore of you! I am only a mulatto, I know; but mulattoes have a heart as well as white men—better than some, I do honestly believe. Miss Dupuy, from the very first moment I saw you, I—I loved you! yes, I _will_ say it—I loved you!—I loved you!’ Nora rose, and stood erect before him, proud but tremulous, in her girlish beauty. ‘Dr Whitaker,’ she said, in a very calm tone, ‘I knew it; I saw it. From the first moment you ever spoke to me, I knew it perfectly.’ He drew a long breath to still the violent throbbing of his heart. ‘You knew it,’ he said, almost joyously—‘you knew it! And you did not repel me! Oh, Miss Dupuy, for one of your blood and birth, that was indeed a great condescension!’ Nora hesitated. ‘I liked you, Dr Whitaker,’ she answered slowly—‘I liked you, and I was sorry for you.’