"Lord Chandos, I implore you to desist," entreats Bebe, hastily, raising one hand, to prevent his further speech. "It is worse than useless." But he only imprisons the warning hand and continues: "Nay, hear me--that is all I ask--and then, if I am again to be rejected, be it so. But surely I have been wretched long enough, and you---" "I will not listen," murmurs Bebe, more deeply agitated. "The answer I gave you when you were poor is the only answer I can ever give you now." Her voice dies way, almost to a whisper. "What do you mean by that?" exclaims Chandos, passionately. "Is the very money that I hailed with delight, principally because I dreamed it might bring me closer to you, to prove a barrier between us? Presumptuous as it may sound, I dare to believe I am not quite indifferent to you. Your manner when we parted, your eyes when we met again down here, have fostered this belief, and yet you shrink from me." A little inarticulate cry escapes her. One hand goes to her throat; she tries vainly to withdraw the other from his grasp. "Contradict me--if you can," he says, in a low but vehement tone. "This is ungenerous--unmanly," she falters, her words half choked with emotion. "Contradict me," he reiterates. "I can; I do," murmurs she, but so weakly that her voice can scarcely be heard. "Is that the truth, Bebe?" says Chandos, more quietly. "Is pride to come between us now? Darling, listen to me. If you for one moment imagine I think badly of you because you refused to marry a poor man, you wrong me. I think you acted rightly. Even as I asked you that day I felt myself a coward in doing so. Was it honorable of me to seek to drag you down from all the luxuries and enjoyments to which you had been accustomed, to such a life as it was only in my power to offer? Had your answer been different, do you believe we would have been happy? I do not." "You strike at the very root of all romance," protests Bebe, with a rather sad smile. "I decline to countenance a great deal of rubbish," returns he vigorously. "Poverty is the surest foe that love can have, I stoutly maintain, in spite of all the poets that ever wrote. But now that it no longer stands in the way, Bebe, be my wife, and let us forget the past." "Do you think we should either of us ever forget it?" demands she, raising a small white mournful face to his. "Do you not see how it would come between us every hour of our lives? Even supposing what you say to be true, that I love you, it would be all the greater reason why I should now refuse to be persuaded into doing as you wish. Could I bear to know, day by, that my husband thought me mercenary?" "Mercenary! I shall never think you that. How could I? How could any man blame you for shrinking from such a selfish proposal as mine? I tell you again I think you behaved rightly in the matter."