"Could you suppose for a moment, that because I had lost the phantom of a fortune which I never possessed, I would accept the man--whose kindness I was always grateful for, but whose love I had refused before because I could not give him any in return?" "No. I did not suppose so. You gave me a reason for refusing my attentions then, which I have the best ground for believing no longer exists." "What was the reason I gave you then?" "That you loved another." "And what ground have I given you for supposing that such has ceased to be the case?" "You have not given me any. He has." Lucy started. The blood rushed to her forehead, and then back to her heart. "Where is he?" she cried, clasping her hands. "For God's sake, tell me." "That at least is answer enough to my presumptuous hope," returned Mr. Sargent, with some bitterness. "Mr. Sargent," said Lucy, who, though trembling greatly, had now recovered her self-command, "I beg your pardon for any pain I may have occasioned you. But, by surprising the truth, you have saved me the repetition of what I told you before. Tell me what you know of Mr. Worboise." But Mr. Sargent's feelings--those especially occupied with himself--got the better of him now, bitterly as he regretted it afterward. He felt it a wrong that such a woman should pass him by for the sake of such a man; and he answered in the heat of injury: "All I care to know about him is, that for the sake of his game among a low set of gamblers, he staked and lost a diamond ring--a rose-diamond, which one of his companions seemed to know as the gift of a lady. That is the man for whom Lucy Burton is proud to express her devotion!" Lucy had grown very pale; but she would hold out till Mr. Sargent was gone. She had an answer on her lips; but if she spoke he would stay. Still she _would_ say one word for Thomas. "Your evidence is hardly of the most trustworthy kind, Mr. Sargent. Good-evening." "It is of _his_ kind, anyhow, whatever that may be," he retorted, and left the room. Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, he despised himself most heartily, and rushed up again to attempt an apology. Opening the room door, he saw Lucy lying on the floor. He thought she had fainted. But the same moment, Mrs. Boxall, who had only gone up stairs, came down behind him, and he thought it best to leave and write a letter. But Lucy had not fainted. She had only thrown herself on the floor in that agony which would gladly creep into the grave to forget itself. In all grief unmingled with anger there is the impulse to lie down. Lucy had not heard Mr. Sargent return or her grandmother reënter, for she had been pressing her ears with her hands, as if the last sounds that had entered had wounded them grievously. "Well, I'm sure! what next?" remarked Mrs. Boxall. "I dare say fashions _have_ come to that at last!"