Gwendolen looked round at him and smiled. “Treat you? Nonsense! I am only rather cross. Why did you come so very early? You must expect to find tempers in dishabille.” “Be as cross with me as you like—only don’t treat me with indifference,” said Rex, imploringly. “All the happiness of my life depends on your loving me—if only a little—better than any one else.” He tried to take her hand, but she hastily eluded his grasp and moved to the other end of the hearth, facing him. “Pray don’t make love to me! I hate it!” she looked at him fiercely. Rex turned pale and was silent, but could not take his eyes off her, and the impetus was not yet exhausted that made hers dart death at him. Gwendolen herself could not have foreseen that she should feel in this way. It was all a sudden, new experience to her. The day before she had been quite aware that her cousin was in love with her; she did not mind how much, so that he said nothing about it; and if any one had asked her why she objected to love-making speeches, she would have said, laughingly, “Oh I am tired of them all in the books.” But now the life of passion had begun negatively in her. She felt passionately averse to this volunteered love. To Rex at twenty the joy of life seemed at an end more absolutely than it can do to a man at forty. But before they had ceased to look at each other, he did speak again. “Is that last word you have to say to me, Gwendolen? Will it always be so?” She could not help seeing his wretchedness and feeling a little regret for the old Rex who had not offended her. Decisively, but yet with some return of kindness, she said, “About making love? Yes. But I don’t dislike you for anything else.” There was just a perceptible pause before he said a low “good-bye,” and passed out of the room. Almost immediately after, she heard the heavy hall door bang behind him. Mrs. Davilow, too, had heard Rex’s hasty departure, and presently came into the drawing-room, where she found Gwendolen seated on the low couch, her face buried, and her hair falling over her figure like a garment. She was sobbing bitterly. “My child, my child, what is it?” cried the mother, who had never before seen her darling struck down in this way, and felt something of the alarmed anguish that women, feel at the sight of overpowering sorrow in a strong man; for this child had been her ruler. Sitting down by her with circling arms, she pressed her cheek against Gwendolen’s head, and then tried to draw it upward. Gwendolen gave way, and letting her head rest against her mother, cried out sobbingly, “Oh, mamma, what can become of my life? there is nothing worth living for!” “Why, dear?” said Mrs. Davilow. Usually she herself had been rebuked by her daughter for involuntary signs of despair. “I shall never love anybody. I can’t love people. I hate them.” “The time will come, dear, the time will come.”