"He was so good about it, and I deserved so little mercy at his hands. I don't deny I had flirted with him horribly, with cruel heartlessness, considering I knew all along when it came to the final move, I would say 'No.' I liked him so well that I could not make up my mind to be brave in time and let him go, never counting the pain I would afterwards have to inflict--and bear." Her voice sinks to a whisper. Without turning my head, I lay my hand on hers. "It all happened one morning," she goes on, presently making a faint pause between each sentence, "quite early. There was nothing poetic or sentimental about it in the way of conservatories or flowers or music. He had come to pay me his usual visit. It was July, and mamma and I were leaving town the next day. We were not to see each other again for a long time. Perhaps that hastened it. It was a wet day, I remember--I can hear the sad drip, drip, of the raindrops now--and we felt silent and depressed. Somehow then--I hardly know how--it all was said--and over." "How sad it was!" I murmur, stroking the hand I hold with quiet sympathy. "And then---" "Then I let him see how utterly false and worthless was the woman he loved. I let him know that even if I adored him his want of money would be an insurmountable barrier between us. I think I _told_ him so. I am not quite sure of that. I do not recollect distinctly one word I said that day. I only know that he went away impressed with the belief that I was a mere contemptible money-worshipper." "Did he say anything--reproachful, I mean?" "That was the hardest part of it. He would not reproach me. Had he been bitter or hard or cold I could have borne it better; but he was silent on the head of his wrongs. He only sat there, looking distinctly miserable, without an unkind word on his lips." "What? Did he say nothing?" "Very little. Unless to tell me I had treated him disgracefully, I don't know that there was anything _to be_ said. He declared that he had expected just such an answer; that he felt he had no right to hope for a happier one. He did not blame me--of course I was acting wisely--and so on. He never once asked me to reconsider my words. Then he got up and said he must bid me a long farewell. He knew a man who would gladly exchange with him and give him a chance of seeing a little Indian life; he was tired of England. You can imagine the kind of thing." "Poor fellow! How did he look?" "He was very white, and his lips were tightly compressed. And I think there were--_tears_ in his eyes. Oh, Phyllis" cries Bebe, passionately, rising to push her chair back sharply, and beginning to pace the room, "when I saw the tears in his eyes I almost gave in. _Almost_, mark you, not quite. I am too well trained for that." "I think I would have relented."