"Forget!" he asks, patiently, gently, though his eyes are burning with impetuous eagerness. "Do you forget who I am--who you are?" she says, faintly. "I forget everything except that you are to me the most lovely and precious of creatures on God's earth," he says, passionately. Then, with a touch of his characteristic pride, "What need have I to remember anything else, Stella?" "But I have," she said. "Oh yes, it is for me to remember. I cannot--I ought not to forget. It is for me to remember. I am only Stella Etheridge, an artist's niece, a nobody--an insignificant girl, and you--oh, Lord Leycester!" "And I?" he says, as if ready to meet her fairly at every point. "And you!"--she looks around--"you are a nobleman; will be the lord of all this beautiful place--of all that you were showing me the other day. You should not, ought not to tell me that--that--what you have told me." He bent over her, and his hand closed on her arm with a masterful caressing touch. "You mean that because I am what I am--that because I am rich I am to be made poor; because I have so much--too much, that the one thing on earth which would make the rest worth having is to be denied me." He laughed almost fiercely. "Better to be the poorest son of the soil than lord of many acres, if that were true, Stella. But it is not. I do not care whether I am rich or poor, noble or nameless--yes, I do! I am glad for your sake. I have never cared before. I have never realized it before, but I do now. I am glad now. Do you know why?" She shook her head, her eyes downcast. "Because I can lay them all at your feet," and as he speaks he bends on one knee beside her and draws her hand with trembling hands to his heart. "See, Stella, I lay them at your feet. I say take them, if you think them worth--take them, and make them worth having; no, I say rather, share them with me? Set against your love, my darling, title, lands, wealth--are all worthless dross to me. Give me your love, Stella; I must, I will have it!" and he presses a passionate clinging kiss on her hand. Frightened by his vehemence, Stella draws her hand away and shrinks back. He rises and draws her to a seat, standing beside her calm and penitent. "Forgive me, Stella! I frighten you! See, I will be quite gentle and quiet--only listen to me!" "No, no," she murmurs, trembling, "I must not. Think--if--if--I said what you wish me to say, how could I meet the countess? What would they say to me? They would blame me for stealing your love." "You have not stolen; no nun from a convent could have been more free from artifice than you, Stella. You have stolen nothing; it is I who have _given_--GIVEN you all." She shook her head. "It is the same," she murmured. "They would be so displeased. Oh, it cannot be." "It cannot be?" he repeated, with a smile. "But it has already come to pass. Am I one to love and unlove in a breath, Stella? Look at me!" She raises her eyes, and meets his eager, passionate gaze.