"That was all, Patty, a very commonplace ending. You were ashamed of me; ashamed of my outward appearance, which lacked the correct finish of a Bond Street tailor; ashamed of my eagerness and my passion, and my open adoration; ashamed of my poverty, and afraid of it. Poor pretty Patty! poor little butterfly of fashion! What should it know of the coarser insects of creation, whose existence was as necessary perhaps, but less ornamental, than its own? Why should it break its pretty painted wings in trying to soar above the sunshine of the hour? You rejected me, Patricia, that was the end of our last interview; you rejected me and scorned me, and cast me from you when tired of your toy, and when you had wounded me beyond healing, and flouted my love and constancy. You asked me to kiss you for good-bye; I think that was the bitterest moment of all my life, Patty, it was such wanton cruelty, such selfish triumphing. And I went from you with all the love and hope and trust and belief of youth crushed out of my heart by your two soft little hands. Who could have thought they had the strength to deal one such a coward's blow?" Again he stopped, but still she remained still and silent, the whiteness of her face growing strange and unfamiliar in the fitful moonbeams. "That was our last meeting and parting, Patricia, and it happened ten years ago. And you would have me believe that you have so mastered the art of forgetting as to make of it all only a blank chaos!" He came nearer to her, and moving with careful hand the folds of her dress sat down beside her on the broad marble brim. Seated thus, side by side, his eyes were on a level with hers, and he read within their depths so great a misery as to call forth a fuller pity in his own. "Patty," he said, very quietly, "Patty, my answer to your letter was cold and hard, unworthy of me. Will you forget it, my dear, and let me give you my true answer now, with your head upon my heart, and my lips on yours, as in the old days, Patty? The old beautiful days when the world and our love was young. Patty, my little wayward Patty, come back to my love and to me." He held out his arms and would have drawn her to him, so sure was he of her answer. But she, springing up, stood tall and dignified before him, her bosom, from which the lace wrap had fallen, heaving with her hurriedly drawn breath, the whiteness of her uncovered neck and arms gleaming like alabaster, as she stood silhouetted against the sombre boughs of the hazel-trees behind her. Her eyes flashed with their old fire, she raised one hand in her old favourite imperious gesture, and when she spoke the tones of her voice had grown round and full and musical.