“Why are girls so badly brought up? I was not bad at heart; but I was vain and frivolous. I loved to inflict pain of a kind upon others, till I played once too often with edge-tools, and have suffered for it ever since. Of course, Tom Pendrill heard these reports, and, of course, they angered him deeply; for I had given him every encouragement. He did not know the complex workings of a woman’s heart, her wild struggles for supremacy before she can be content to yield herself up for ever a willing sacrifice. He did not understand; how should he? I did not either till it was too late. “I saw him once more alone. We were walking by the river one moonlight night. He was unlike himself—silent, moody, imperious. All of a sudden it burst out. He asked me almost fiercely if I would be his wife—he almost claimed my promise as his right—said that I owed him that reparation for destroying his peace of mind. How my heart leapt as I heard those words. A torrent of love seemed to surge over me. I was terrified at the depth of feeling he had stirred up. I struggled with a sort of fury against being carried away by it, against betraying myself too unreservedly. I don’t remember what I said; I was terribly agitated. I believe in my confusion and bewilderment I said something disgusting about my rank and his—the difference between us. Then he cast that odious marquis in my teeth, supposed that the report he had heard was true, that I was going to sell myself for the reversion of a ducal coronet, since I thought so much of _rank_. I was furious; all the more furious because I had brought it on myself, though, had he but known it, it was ungenerous to take me at a disadvantage, and cast my words back at me like that—words spoken without the least consideration or intention. But, right or wrong, he did it, and I answered back with more vehemence than before. I don’t know what I said, but it was enough for him, at any rate. He turned upon me—I think he almost cursed me—not in words, but in the cruel scorn expressed in his face and in his voice. Ah! it hurts me even now. Then he left me without another word, without a sign or sound of farewell—left me standing alone by that river. I never saw him again till we met in your drawing-room that night.” Beatrice paused; Monica had taken her hand in token of sympathy, but she did not speak. “Of course, at first I thought he would come back. I never dreamed he would believe I had really led him on, only to reject him with contempt, when once he dared to speak his heart to me. We had quarrelled; and I was very miserable, knowing how foolish I had been; but I never, never believed for a moment that he would take that quarrel as final.