“You have made me mad, Isabel,” he whispered. “It is terrible not to be able to see you when that agony comes upon me. I neither rest nor employ myself; I can only pace my room, like an animal in his cage, with my heart on fire. Oh, I suffer--life is intolerable!” “Bernard, let me go to that chair--to see you gave me a shock. For heaven’s sake do speak less wildly, dear! Why should you suffer so? Have I not written to you often? Do you doubt me? What is it that distresses you?” He stood, and still held her hand. “Don’t speak, but look at me very gently, softly, with all the assurance of tenderness that your eyes will utter. You have such power over me, that your gaze will soothe and make me a reasonable being again. No, not your lips! Only that still, smiling look, that I may worship you.” Her bosom trembled. “Do you know yourself?” Kingcote went on, under his breath. “Have you any consciousness of that fearful power which is in you? No more, I suppose, than the flower has of its sweetness. You have so drawn my life into the current of your own, that I have lost all existence apart from you. I have dreamed of loving, but that was all idle; I had no imagination for this spell you have cast upon me.” “I am glad you came! I too was longing to touch your hand.” She pressed it to her lips. “Oh, if I could only stay with you, now!” “Yes, I know I must not keep you. You have friends waiting. They have a better right.” “A better right? That you know they have not, Bernard. But--I cannot----” “They represent the world that is between you and me,” he said, moving away. “You cannot leave them--no, it is impossible. Think how strange it sounds. It would be as easy for you to do anything that is most disgraceful in the world’s eyes, as to leave those friends to themselves for my sake. I am not speaking harshly; I mean that it is in truth so, and it shows us how amazingly we are creatures of conventional habit.” It was doubtful whether Isabel understood his meaning, her point of view was so different. A thought which strikes one into speechless astonishment will leave another quite unmoved. It is a question of degree of culture--also of degree of emotion. “Dear, if you had forewarned me of your coming. Don’t speak unkindly to me!” “Rather I would never speak again. Go, and all blessings go with you! You have helped me to my calmer self. But, Isabel----” “Bernard?” “Are there often these friends about you?” he asked sadly. “No, not often. I have told you how often I am by myself. And now, I _must!_ Stay; do not leave the room when I do. Sit at the desk there and write me a letter. The drawer below is open; close the envelope, and put it in there; I will look for it. And you have not even breakfasted?” “Oh, I will go to the ‘Coach and Horses.’ But no; I’m afraid of meeting Mr. Vissian somewhere. I will leave the park by the opposite road, and find some inn. Now I am well again. Good-bye, sweet!”