“How do you know what is like myself and what is not? You have only seen one side of me, and I don’t think that you have understood even what you have seen. Great Heavens! how could I expect that you should. Not until within a few months ago had I myself any idea that my nature was made up of more than one element. Do you fancy now that you will always be in the future as you have been in the past? The same placid, sweet English girl, with serious thoughts at times about your own soul and other people’s souls? a maiden living with her feet only touching the common clay of this earth? Wait until your hour comes--your hour of love; your hour of fate; your hour of self-abandonment, and pray to your God that you may come through it as well as I came through mine.” “Ella, dearest Ella!” “You know nothing of that hour--that terrible hour! Wait until it comes to you before you think a word of evil against any woman that lives in the world. Wait until your hour of jealousy comes--wait until you find that your hair is turning gray. The most tragical moment in a woman’s life is when she finds that the gray hairs will not be kept back. That is the time when she thinks of Heaven most seriously. I have not yet found a single gray hair in my head, but I have suffered all else; and I have been an astonishment to myself--as I have been to you more than once before now, and as I certainly am to you at the present moment.” She had spoken at first with quivering lips, her fingers interlaced, her eyes flashing. She had sprung from her seat and had begun to pace the room just as she had paced Phyllis’ drawing room on that night when she had missed the performance of “Romeo and Juliet,” but she ended with a laugh, which was meant to make a mock of the seriousness of her impassioned words, but which only had the effect of emphasizing her passion in the ears of the girl. While she was still lying back, laughing, in the chair into which she had thrown herself once more, Phyllis went to her and knelt at her feet, taking her hands just as Herbert had taken her hands in the evening when he had knelt at her feet in her own house after the little dinner at Mr. Ayrton’s. “Ella, Ella,” she whispered, “I also am a woman. Oh, my dearest! I think that I can understand something of your heart. I know a little. Oh, Ella, Ella! I would do anything in the world to help you--anything--anything!” “Would you?” cried the woman. “Would you do anything? Would you give up Herbert Courtland in order to help me?” She had grasped Phyllis by the wrists and had bent her own head forward until her face was within an inch of Phyllis’. Their breaths mingled. Their faces were too close to admit of either of them seeing the expression that was in the eyes of the other. “Dearest Ella, you will not break my heart!” said the girl piteously. “Will you give him up for your love of me?” the woman cried again, and Phyllis felt her hands tighten upon her wrists.