"Then--then!" With a movement full of passion he lays his hands upon her shoulders and turns her slightly, so that the ray which has wandered once more rests upon her face. "Let me look at you," he says; "let me see how bravely you can carry out your deception to its end. Its _end_, mark you; for you shall never again deceive me. I have had enough of it. It is over. My love for you has died." "Beyond all doubt it had an easy death," replies she, calmly. "There could never have been much life in it. But all this is beside the question. I have yet to learn my crime. I have yet to learn what awful iniquity lies in the fact of my being with Philip Shadwell." "You are wonderfully innocent," with a sneer. "Do you think then that my sight failed me?" "Still I do not understand," she says, drawing herself up, with a little proud gesture. "What is it to me whether you or all the world saw me with Philip? Explain yourself." "I will." In a low voice, almost choked with passion and despair. "You will understand when I tell you I saw him with his arms around you--you submitting--you---- And then--I saw him--kiss you. That I should live to say it of you!" "_Did_ you see him kiss me?" still calmly. "Your eyesight is invaluable." "Ah! you no longer deny it? In your inmost heart no doubt you are laughing at me, poor fool that I have been. How many other times have you kissed him, I wonder, when I was not by to see?" "Whatever faults you may have had, I acquitted you of brutality," says she, in a low, carefully suppressed tone. "You never loved me. In that one matter at least you were honest; you never professed affection. And yet I was mad enough to think that after a time I should gain the love of a flirt,--a coquette." "You were mad to _care_ for the love of 'a flirt,--a coquette.'" "I have been blind all these past weeks," goes on he, unheeding, "determined not to see (what all the rest of the world, no doubt, too plainly saw) what there was between you and Shadwell. But I am blind no longer. I am glad,--yes, thankful," cries the young man, throwing out one hand, as though desirous of proving by action the truth of his sad falsehood,--"thankful I have found you out at last,--before it was too late." "I am thankful too; but for another reason. I feel grateful that your suspicions have caused you to break off our engagement. And now that it is broken,--irremediably so,--let me tell you that for once your priceless sight has played you false. I admit that Philip placed his arm around me (but not unrebuked, as you would have it); I admit he stooped to kiss me; but," cries Molly, with sudden passion that leaves her pale as an early snow-drop, "I do _not_ admit he kissed me. Deceitful, worthless, flirt, coquette, as you think me, I have not yet fallen so low as to let one man kiss me while professing to keep faith with another." "You say this--after----"