"There is a change in you, Liane," the young man declared, gazing seriously into her eyes. "Tell me, darling, what has occurred." She held her breath for a moment. She loved him dearer than life, yet she feared to speak the truth lest he should turn from her and renounce her as an enchantress false and unworthy. Her countenance was almost pale as the dress she wore, and her breast rose and fell convulsively. "Nothing," she answered at last. "Nothing has occurred." "But you are not bright and happy as you used to be," he declared sympathetically. "Something troubles you. Confide in me, darling." She turned her face from him and tears slowly coursed down her cheeks. But she made no response. Together they walked several times the whole length of the terrace, and their conversation drifted to other topics. He told her of his bachelor life in London, his lonely, dreary chambers, of his desperate struggle to secure a foothold in his already overcrowded profession, and of his good fortune in obtaining a little book-reviewing for a weekly paper. "Now, what distresses you, Liane?" he asked at last, when again they were standing against the parapet gazing over the sea. "Surely I may know?" "No," she murmured. "No, George, you cannot." "Do you fear to trust me--the man who loves you?" he asked in a reproachful tone, grasping her hand. "Ah!" she cried with sudden emotion, "do not make my burden heavier to bear, George. Why have you come here to me--now?" "Why now? Are you not pleased that I should be beside you when you are unhappy?" "Yes--I mean no," she sobbed. "Your presence here only adds to my torture." "Torture?" he echoed. "What do you mean, Liane?" "I must tell you now," she gasped, clutching his arm convulsively, and raising her tearful face to his with an imploring look. "You will not think me false, cruel and heartless--will you? But I cannot marry you." "What!" he ejaculated, starting and regarding her in abject dismay. "Why, what is there to prevent it? Surely you cannot say that you no longer love me?" "Ah! no," she answered, panting, her gloved hand still clutching his arm. "I do love you, George. I swear I love you at this moment as no other woman ever can." "Yet you cannot marry me?" "It is impossible." "Ah! don't say that, darling," he protested. "We love each other too well ever to be parted." "But we must part," she answered, in a blank, despairing voice. "You must no longer think of me, except as one who has loved you, as one who will still think often, very often, of you." "Impossible!" he cried quickly. "You told me once that you loved me, that you would wait a year or so if necessary, and that you would marry me." "I know! I know!" she wailed, covering her face with her hands. "And I told you the truth." "Then you have met someone else whom you love better," he observed, in a tone of poignant sorrow.