"You are mistaken," he replies, thinking of a way to put her to confusion, and silence her tongue that is but a little louder than his own accusing conscience. "I was thinking of what you said just now. Is it really true that you have given me your heart?" The warm, red color creeps up to her temples under the blue fire of his steady, curious eyes. She rallies herself with a brave little effort of will. "Yes," she answers, with a little touch of pathos in her low voice. "It is quite true. Does it amuse you? It is only a girl's heart. You will break it and throw it from you of course. I have often heard that women's hearts were men's playthings." He regards her in curious silence. Few women would be brave enough to make that frank admission to a cold, careless, unloving husband. Yet Reine is as proud as the most, she lacks none of the modesty of her sex. There is a curious, restrained pride in her every look and movement now. And, strange to say, he does not feel disgusted at her pathetic admission of her love for him. "She _loves_ me," he repeats over and over to his heart, looking at the lissome, daintily rounded figure, and the brilliant face, bright and rich like a tropical flower, with the softness of emotion lying on it like dew. "She loves me," and there is a certain masculine vanity in the thought that he, Vane Charteris, is the lode-star of her girlish dreams. But before he can think of anything to say, she goes back, pertinacious, to the old theme: "But we have digressed from the original subject. Once more, Mr. Charteris, will you give me the note?" And he answers, bluntly, almost angrily: "No, I will not." And for the first time since their interview, Reine shows a sign of weakness. She reels unsteadily, and throws up her white hands in the air. "I have failed, I have failed," she cries, despairingly. "Oh, you are merciless; you are a veritable Shylock. Nothing will sate your thirst for vengeance but a pound of flesh!" He catches the falling figure in his arms. For one moment the white, anguished face rests against his breast, then she opens her eyes and struggles from his clasp. "Do not touch me," she says, with indignant scorn. "You are a monster!" And his own conscience, knocking loudly at the door of his heart, echoes the words. "Reine, Reine," he falters, hurriedly, "do not be hasty. Give me a little time. I will answer you to-morrow." "You take back your refusal?" brightening so swiftly that you think of the sun coming out from under a cloud. "Until to-morrow--yes," he says, feeling a sort of relief at his own words. "You can wait until then?" "Yes, for I cannot go until to-morrow. Did I forget to tell you that Uncle Langton is with me?" "Is he, really?" "Yes, and I fear the trip has been too much for him, poor old dear," with loving compassion. "He feels worn and tired. He is lying down this morning. Will you go to him?" "I shall be very glad. Does he--does he know why you came?"