“No. But you are labouring under a false impression. You are growing highly moral, therefore highly dull.” “I don’t think I have the strength I used to have. I tire of things quickly. I am tired of the High Priest. It is all such empty twaddle to me.” “But not to him.” A silence. “Marigold! I am disappointed in you. You were meant to be a wonderful woman, and you have allowed yourself to be mastered and subdued by a man who doesn’t care that much for you.” “Ah!” she said, half-rising, “I--I will not let you speak so to me. I shall go.” “I speak as it pleases me,” he said in the heavy tone of authority that few ever withstood when he used it. “Your infatuation for Mr Barringcourt is senseless as it is useless. Half the town talks of it. You are a little fool.” “Don’t!” she whispered, cowering down against the pillows, her hand stretched out as if to send him away; “I--I have so much pain lately everywhere--spirit and mind and body--I can’t stand any more.” “You want to be a bit harder, Marigold--to have a bit more pride. There was never a man yet who loved a woman who deliberately let him see she was in love with him, even through snubs.” “I scarcely ever see him, and I rarely speak to him. If the town talks, it is because----” “You blush every time you meet him, and then like as not go deathly pale; flattering to him, no doubt, but not calculated to inspire much--much affection.” “I don’t want him to love me. He loves some one else.” “Then you love some one else too?” “I can’t find any one.” “The High Priest.” “You will make me hate him.” “Make you love him rather. Marigold, he simply worships you.” “He should worship the Serpent.” “The Serpent is an obsolete idol. Even women have seen through it since Barringcourt’s lady-love peeped behind the scenes.” “I don’t understand you.” “You understand me sufficiently well. The High Priest loves you as deeply as you love the Master of the Marble House. You have it in your power to be very kind to him, even though you may not marry him. His illness is all caused by you, Marigold--you have treated him badly--just as your illness is caused by some one else.” “I got mine through little Patches,” she answered softly. “And every one was very kind to Timothy when he was ill,” said he. “And I’m left all alone.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a Princess born to the purple--born to hardness and to suffering. There is a man less proudly born, a mortal, weak and hungering--he, too, is all alone.” “I cannot help him.” “You were kind to Patches.” “Oh! but in a different way. I loved him.” “Love this man. It’s very easily done--a little condescension, a little stooping, you will cure him.” “But I am dying.” “But surely you intend to live to the end?” In the strange dusky shadow that was gradually encircling them, the room around quite dark, Marigold glanced across at him, her fine thin face clearly silhouetted against the shadowy curtain.