Doris could not keep anything back. Now, as ever, the strong will of the man compelled her to reveal her very soul, with all its doings, yearnings, and despair, even in regard to Bernard Cameron. When all was told there was silence in the little room, save for the ticking of the eight-day clock and the purring of the cat upon the hearth. Doris had said everything there was to say: she could add nothing, but only waited for the artist to speak. She looked at him to see why he did not begin. His head was averted, as if he were trying to conceal the emotion which caused his strong features to work convulsively. Then he turned towards her, and the love revealed in his eyes and in his whole expressive countenance blinded and dazzled her. Suddenly, with a swift movement, he took her hands, saying in tones full of deep feeling, "You must come to me. You are totally unfitted to contend with this wicked world. Will you not be my wife?" he pleaded. "I am to be Bernard’s," she faltered, releasing her hands with gentle dignity. Sinclair frowned a little. He did not think that Bernard Cameron loved her; from what Alice had told him he was inclined to think the young man was treating her rather badly. "Are you quite sure that he loves you?" asked Norman Sinclair drily. Doubts born of Bernard’s long silence recurred to the girl’s mind. If he loved her, surely he would have written, in spite of his mother’s prohibition. "I have given him time," persisted Norman, "but he has apparently deserted you, whilst I am---- Oh, Doris, you little know how much I love you! Will you not be my wife?" "Oh, hush! Hush, please!" said Doris. "I am _so sorry_! You have been such a dear, good friend--I have thought so much of your advice--you know it was that mainly which caused me to give up my business, and sink--sink into poverty." "It was very brave of you to do it." "I have thought so much of your advice," she repeated, "and have looked up to you so much. Do not spoil it all." His face fell. Where was his power over her. She seemed to be receding from him. "Doris," he urged, "will you marry me?" "I cannot," she replied, very earnestly. "Indeed I cannot!" "You cannot?" There was a great disappointment in his tone. "I cannot," she repeated. For a minute or two after she said that, the artist sat motionless and silent. Then he began to speak rapidly and with deep feeling.