“God made Nature, monsieur,” she whispered. “God is Love. Oh, I read in the sweet eyes many things that were strange to my traditions!--even that human side of the Mother, that monsieur has sought to disclose. God is Love, and He hath given us passion, not forbidding us passion’s cure.” Ned’s brows took a startled frown, and he made as if to rise. Nicette stole her hand quickly to his. “Monsieur, it cannot be wrong to love--it cannot be that He would lend Himself as a subtle lure to the very sin His code denounces. It is the code--it is the Church that has misconstrued Him.” Something in the young man’s face gave her pause in the midst of her panting eagerness. She drew back immediately, with a little artificial laugh. “_La Sainte Marie_ was all in white,” she said, “with a blue cloak the colour of the skies. And what is the fashion with the fine ladies in London, monsieur?” Mr Murk had got to his feet. “Mademoiselle Legrand,” he said, “you are all of Heloïse, I think, without the erudition. Now, I am not orthodox; yet I think your description of the Virgin very prettily blasphemous. And what has become of the serpent and the globe of liquid purple? You can explain your picture, I see, to accommodate the views of its critics. I admire you very much, and I bid you good day.” He was going. She leapt across his path and stayed him. A bright spot of colour had sprung to her cheek. “You will leave me?” she cried hoarsely. “You shall not go, thinking me a liar!” “No more than the author of ‘Julie,’” he said, drily and stubbornly. “You have the fine gift of romance, but I don’t like your vision.” “It is the truth! I give you but one of the hundred impressions it made upon me.” “Very well. It is a bad selection, so far as I am concerned.” “How could I know--you, that have traded upon my confidence! You tempt me and throw me aside. I will not be so shamed--I, that am no longer obscure--whose every word is worth----” “As much as one of M. Voltaire’s, no doubt. He may value his commercially, at ten sous or fifty. What then? You have the popular ear. Do you want to make your profit of me also?” She twined her fingers together, and held them backwards against her bosom. “Whither are you going?” she panted. “I am on my way back to England.” She took a quick step forward. “You shall not leave me like this! You have made me what I am. Monsieur--monsieur----” In a moment the storm broke. Once more she was drowned in tears. She threw herself upon him, and her arms about his neck. “It is love!” she cried. “You are my God and my desire. I have followed you in my heart these long months--oh, how piteously! Do anything with me you will. Disbelieve me, spurn me, stamp on me--only let me love you! These months--oh, these desolate, sick months!” She clung to him, entreating and caressing, though he muttered “For shame!” and strove to disentangle her fingers. She would not be denied in this first convulsive self-consciousness of her surrender.