"You're cruel," he said. "You're refusing to let me prolong your life. Have I deserved that from you?" "Oh!" she cried, in a tortured voice, "for God's sake, don't press me! Leave me something--I won't say 'self-respect,' but a vestige, a grain of proper pride. Think what my feelings would be, living on money from you--it wouldn't prolong my life, George; it would kill me sooner. You've been generous and merciful to me; be merciful to me still and talk of something else." "You are asking me to stand by and see you die. _I_ have feelings, too, Mamie. I can't do it!" "I'm dying," she said; "if it happens a little sooner, or a little later, does it matter very much? If you want to be very kind to me, to--to brighten the time that remains as much as you can, tell me that if I send to you when--when it's a question of days, you'll come to the place and see me again. I'd bless you for that! I've been afraid to ask you till now; but it would mean more to me than anything else you could do. Would you, if I sent?" "Why," said Heriot labouredly, after another pause, "why would it mean so much?" They were leaning over the taffrail; and suddenly her head was bent, and she broke into convulsive sobs that tore his breast. "Mamie!" he exclaimed. "Mamie, tell me!" He glanced round and laid a trembling touch on her hands. "Tell me, dear!" he repeated hoarsely. "Do you love me, then?" Her figure was shaken by the shuddering sobs. His touch tightened to a clasp; he drew the hands down from the distorted face, drew the shaken figure closer, till his own met it--till her bosom was heaving against his heart. "Do you love me, Mamie?" "Yes!" she gasped. And then for an instant only their eyes spoke, and in the intensity of their eyes each gave to the other body and soul. "Yes, I love you," she panted; "it's my punishment, I suppose, to love you too late. I shall never see you after to-morrow, till I am dying--if then--but I love you. Remember it! It's no good to you, you won't care, but remember it, because it's my punishment. You can say, 'When it was too late, she knew! She died detesting herself, shrinking at her own body, her own loathsome body that she gave to another man!' Oh!"--she beat her hands hysterically against his chest--"I hate him, I hate him! God forgive me, he's in his grave, but I hate him when I think what's been. And it wasn't his fault; it was mine, mine--my own degraded, beastly self. Curse me, throw me from you! I'm not fit to be standing here; I'm lower than the lowest woman in the streets!"