Rufus stood in the centre of the room, his eyes covered with one hand to shade them from the sudden light, his figure drooping and abject, his head bowed to his breast, his mouth white and drawn with lines of pain. It seemed as if years had passed over his head since the morning. It would have been scarcely possible to trace in this spiritless, slouching figure, in this white, haggard face, the boy artist who had left his young wife that morning. All the brightness, elasticity and youth seemed gone from him, leaving only a poor broken wreck. The cynical smile that was so characteristic of Craven Black’s countenance came back to his lips as he looked upon his son. He read in the changed aspect of the boy that he had achieved a victory over Rufus. “I have come for your decision, Rufus,” he said. “What is it to be? Disgrace, imprisonment, a blasted name? Or will you turn from your low-born adventuress and accept the career I have marked out for you? Speak!” The hand that shaded the artist’s eyes dropped, and he looked at his father with a countenance so wan, so woeful, so despairing, that a very demon might have pitied him. Yet his father only smiled at what he deemed the evidence of the lad’s weakness. “Oh, father,” said the young man hollowly, “will you not have mercy upon me--upon _her_?” “None!” replied Craven Black curtly. “Again I demand your choice!” Rufus wrung his hands in wild despair. “If I abandon her, what will become of her?” he moaned. “She will die of starvation! My poor little wife!” “Do not call her again by that title!” cried Craven Black frowning. “Can you not comprehend that the marriage is illegal--is null and void--that she is not your wife? When she hears the truth, she will turn from you in loathing. As to her support, I will provide for her. She shall not starve, as she will do if you are sent to prison for perjury. For the last time I demand your decision. Will you give up the girl peaceably, or will you be forced to?” There was a moment of dead silence. Then the answer came brokenly from the young man’s lips. “I--I give her up!” he muttered. “God help us both!” “It is well,” declared Craven Black, more kindly. “You could not do otherwise. You like the girl now, but a year hence you will smile at your present folly. Why should you fling away all your possibilities of wealth and honor for a silly boyish fancy? Cheer up, Rufus. Throw aside all that despair, and accept the goods the gods provide you. The girl will marry some one else, as you must do. Your future bride has arrived at Hawkhurst, and to-morrow evening I shall take you to call upon her. I suppose you have eaten nothing since the morning, and your first need is supper.”