"Too late. Besides, I have no desire to conquer it. On the contrary, I encourage it, in hope of some return. No, do not dishearten me. I know what you are going to say; but at least you like me, Cecil?" "Well, yes; but what of that? I like so many people." "Then go a little further, and say you--love me." "That would be going a _great_ deal further, because I love so few." "Never mind. Say 'Penthony, I love you.'" He has placed his hands upon her shoulders, and is regarding her with anxious fondness. "Would you have me tell you an untruth?" "I would have you say you love me." "But supposing I cannot in honesty?" "Try." "Of course I can try. Words without meaning are easy things to say. But then--a lie; that is a serious matter. "It may cease to be a lie, once uttered." "Well,--just to please you, then, and as an experiment--and---- You are _sure_ you will not despise me for saying it?" "No." "Nor accuse me afterward of deceit?" "Of course not." "Nor think me weak-minded?" "No, no. How could I?" "Well, then--Penthony--I--_don't love you the least bit in the world_!" declares Cecil, with a provoking, irresistible laugh, stepping backward out of his reach. Sir Penthony does not speak for a moment or two; then "'Sweet is revenge, especially to women,'" he says, quietly, although at heart he is bitterly chagrined. To be unloved is one thing--to be laughed at is another. "After all, you are right. There is nothing in this world so rare or so admirable as honesty. I am glad you told me no untruth, even in jest." Just at this instant the door opens, and Molly enters. She looks surprised at such an unexpected spectacle as Cecil's husband sitting in his wife's boudoir, _tete-a-tete_ with her. "Don't be shy, dear," says Cecil, mischievously, with a little wicked laugh; "you may come in; it is only my husband." The easy nonchalance of this speech, the only half-suppressed amusement in her tone, angers Sir Penthony more than all that has gone before. With a hasty word or two to Molly, he suddenly remembers a pressing engagement, and, with a slight bow to his wife, takes his departure. CHAPTER XXIV. "Take, oh! take those lips away, That so sweetly were foresworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn: But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, but seal'd in vain." --Shakespeare. The longed-for night has arrived at last; so has Molly's dress, a very marvel of art, fresh and pure as newly-fallen snow. It is white silk with tulle, on which white water-lilies lie here and there, as though carelessly thrown, all their broad and trailing leaves gleaming from among the shining folds. Miss Massereene is in her own room, dressing, her faithful Sarah on her knees beside her. She has almost finished her toilet, and is looking more than usually lovely in her London ball-dress.