"Yes you will," fiercely. "Does it hurt you to hear me? Does it distress you to know that I love you I, who have never loved any one--that I love you with a passion that no words could describe? You have ruined my life, and now that you have attained your object, have satisfied yourself of Marmaduke's affection, you throw me, your victim, aside, as something old, worn out, worthless, careless of the agony you have inflicted. It is cold, cruel, innocent children like you, who do all the real mischief in this life. Do you remember those words of Moore's? they haunt me every time I see you; 'Too bright and fair To let wild passions write One wrong wish there.' I believe you are incapable of loving, though so lovable in yourself." "You have said enough: is it manly of you to compel me to hear such words? Surely you must have exhausted all your bitterness by this." "'Reproach is infinite and knows no end.' Yet of what use to reproach you? You have a heart that cannot be touched. Possibly you do not even feel regret for what you have done." "Sir Mark, I entreat--I desire you to cease." "You shall be obeyed; for I have finished. There is nothing more to be said. I was determined you should at least hear, and know what you have done. Now you can go home happy in the thought that you have added one more fool to your list. Yes, I will cease. Have you anything to say?" "Only this: I desire you will leave my house without delay." My lips are white and trembling, but it is anger, not nervousness, that affects me now. "This moment, if you wish it," with a short laugh. "No; I will have no comments made. You can easily make a reasonable excuse out of your letters to-morrow morning. After all you have said, I hope I shall never see your face again." "You never shall, if it depends on me." "I regret that I ever---" "Oh, pray leave all the rest unsaid, Mrs. Carrington," he interrupts, bitterly. "I can fancy it. You regret, of course, you ever admitted such a fallen character within your doors; I have insulted and wounded you in every possible way. So be it. You say so, therefore it must be true. At the same time I would have you remember, what is also true, that I would die to save you from any grief or harm. If," sinking his voice, and speaking in a slow, peculiar tone, "if you are ever in deep trouble, and I can help you, think of me." I am impressed without knowing why. It is as though some one had laid a curse upon me. I grow as white as death, and my breath comes from me in short, quick gasps. At this moment, a deadly fear of something intangible, far off, of something lying in the mystic future, passes over me like a cold wind. Sir Mark, raising his hat, draws near. He takes my chilled gloveless hand. "May I?" he asks, humbly, and with the natural grace that belongs to him. "It is a farewell." Oppressed with my nameless terror, I cannot reply. I scarcely hear him. Stooping, he lays his lips lightly on my hand.