She did not speak or look up, but worked steadily on her embroidery, feeling that the atmosphere oppressed her so that she could scarcely breathe. “Do you not know that I am not your uncle, Gloria? Do you not know that I am not the least kin to you? Answer me, my darling.” “Yes, I know it,” said the perplexed girl, scarcely above her breath. “Then you do not love me the less for not being your own uncle?” “Oh, no,” breathed the girl. “While I——Ah! my child, I thank Heaven every day of my life that I am no blood relation of yours,” he added earnestly. She heard him with a shudder, but made no reply. “You must not call me uncle any longer, my darling. You must call me ‘Marcel,’ as you used to do. Do you hear me, Gloria? Will you call me ‘Marcel,’ as of old?” She felt herself almost suffocating under the passion of his gaze, but she forced herself to answer, though in the lowest tone: “I cannot do so now.” “But why? You used to do so, my dearest. You used to call me nothing but Marcel.” “That was—when I was a baby—or a child. I called you—what I heard others call you—as children will. I knew no better then. I know better now,” she answered, with a fruitless attempt to speak firmly; for her voice sank and almost expired, as she wished herself a thousand miles from her present seat, yet felt that she had no power to flee. “But, my dear, you cannot go on calling me uncle, for I am not your uncle,” he answered, really pleased and flattered by the distress that he fatally misunderstood, because, in fact, it resembled the sweet confusion of the girls who had been “in love” with him in his earlier youth. “No, Gloria, you must not call me uncle,” he repeated. “Then I must call you Colonel de Crespigney,” she replied, without raising her oppressed eyes. “Never! that would be almost as bad as the other. No, you must call me Marcel, as you used to do. How sweetly the syllables fell, bird-like, bell-like, flute-like, from your lips, my darling.” She made no answer, but wished she had the power to rise and go away. “Gloria,” he said, dropping his voice to the lowest tone—“Gloria, I told you just now that I thanked Heaven there was no blood relationship between you and me! Can you divine, my love, why I do so thank Heaven that we are of no kin?” She trembled, but could not speak or move. “Can you not, my child? Ah! you do! you do!” he sighed, seizing both her hands and trying to draw her towards him. The touch gave her the power she needed. “No! I don’t! I don’t know what you mean!” she suddenly cried, snatching her hands from his, starting up and rushing out of the room. Nor did she stop until she had gained the solitude of her own chamber, where she banged to and locked the door, and then sank half dead upon her sofa.