Aspasia wished him to succeed; but something relentless in his looks filled her with a sort of fear of him, of pity for her aunt. He seemed as indifferent to human emotion, as immutable, she thought, as one of the stone gods that, cross-legged and long-eyed, in unfathomable inner self-satisfaction, had gazed forth from their niches in the temple walls below for unknown centuries upon the passing mortal throng. Suddenly he turned and left her. Sir Arthur was now pacing the terrace with the globe-trotter, lucidly laying down the law of India, as interpreted by his own sagacity, his smouldering cigar making ruby circles in the night with every wave of an authoritative hand. The second secretary, Mr. Simpson to wit, was sitting by Lady Gerardine’s side, effusively receiving each indifferent phrase that dropped from her lips. As Major Bethune advanced towards them the young civilian rose and drew away, with a crab-like movement, in the direction of the abandoned Baby. Lady Gerardine clasped her hands together on her knees; the contraction of her heart, at this man’s approach, painted her face ashen even in the pallid light. He took a seat—not Mr. Simpson’s lowly stool, but one that placed him on a level with her; and then there came a little pause between them like the tension of the elements before the break of the storm. She had successfully avoided him the whole evening; but now she felt that further evasion was useless; and she waited, collecting her forces for the final resistance. He went straight to the point: "I hope you have reconsidered yesterday’s decision. Perhaps you do not understand that this is a question of duty with me, of conscience." He was trying to speak gently. "You have no responsibility in the matter," she answered. "I cannot accept that point of view," he said, flashing into icy anger. She did not reply in words, but rose with a swift haughty movement, unmistakably showing her resolve of closing the discussion once and for ever. But in an instant he was before her, barring her way. "Major Bethune," she exclaimed, "this is persecution!" The blood rushed to her cheeks, her eyes flashed. For an instant she was roused to superlative beauty. Stronger became his conviction that here must be more than mere heartless caprice. Something of her emotion gained him. "If you would only give me a reason!" he cried. "It is impossible," she answered quickly. "Is it a thing to be asked for so easily, this raking up of the past? The past! is it not dead? My God—it is dead! What if I for one will keep it so?" "That is no reason," he said cuttingly; "it is hardly an excuse." She passed by him with long swift steps and a rush of silken draperies. And thus, once more baffled, Baby found him, stonily reflecting. She stopped, promptly discarding her meek admirer. "No success?" "No success." "You had better give it up," said Aspasia. "I was never more determined not to give it up."