She had an instinctive knowledge, that Percy was trying to summon courage to tell her of his changed feelings. She shrank from it, as from a blow. "I cannot hear him say the words," she moaned. "I cannot _live_ and hear them from his lips; and I cannot let him go--I cannot, I cannot." She grew thin and hollow-eyed, and the pathos of her face was heartrending. She tried to be cheerful and amuse Percy with her old flow of wit and anecdote. They took their usual drives, and indulged in theatres, and _petits soupers_ afterward, as of old, but it was all a melancholy failure, a farce of their former happy days. Though he gave her the same gallant attentions, she knew his heart was not in it. It was like looking on the dead face of a dear one: the features unchanged, but the spirit fled. One day as he sat smoking a cigar in their pretty artistic rooms, while Dolores played a melancholy air on the piano, he determined to tell her of his resolution to leave her and go abroad. "I will not tell her that I love another," he thought; "that will give needless pain. But I cannot keep up this farce any longer. It must end." "Dolores," he said, throwing away his cigar, "come and sit beside me on this ottoman. I want to talk with you." She turned a pale, startled face to his, and her hands fell upon discordant keys. "I will," she said, rising hurriedly, "in a moment. But first let me show you such a strange, sad little poem I found among some of Mrs. Butler's clippings to-day. Once I could not have understood such a sentiment. To-day I do. I remember showing you a poem that I thought applicable to ourselves another time, Percy. This is very unlike it." She placed the slip of paper in his hand, and sat down beside him while he read it: her elbows resting on his knees, her brow bent on her clasped hands. This was what he read: When your love begins to wane, Spare me from the cruel pain Of all speech that tells me so-- Spare me words, for I shall know. By the half-averted eyes By the breast that no more sighs, By the rapture I shall miss From your strangely-altered kiss, By the arms that still enfold But have lost their clinging hold, And, too willing, let me go, I shall know, love, I shall know. Bitter will the knowledge be, Bitterer than death to me. Yet, 'twill come to me some day, For it is the sad world's way. Make no vows--vows cannot bind Changing hearts or wayward mind. Men grow weary of a bliss Passionate and fond as this. Love will wane. But I shall know, If you do not tell me so. Know it, tho' you smile and say That you love me more each day, Know it by the inner sight That forever sees aright. Words could but increase my woe, And without them, I shall know. When he had finished the reading, he turned and drew Dolores' white, suffering face against his breast without a word.