A groan burst from Wilfrid. Emilia's instinct had divined the antidote that this would be to the poison of revived love in him, and she felt secure, though he had again taken her hand; but it was she who nursed a mere sentiment now, while passion sprang in him, and she was not prepared for the delirium with which he enveloped her. She listened to his raving senselessly, beginning to think herself lost. Her tortured hands were kissed; her eyes gazed into. He interpreted her stupefaction as contrition, her silence as delicacy, her changeing of colour as flying hues of shame: the partial coldness at their meeting he attributed to the burden on her mind, and muttering in a magnanimous sublimity that he forgave her, he claimed her mouth with force. "Don't touch me!" cried Emilia, showing terror. "Are you not mine?" "You must not kiss me." Wilfrid loosened her waist, and became in a minute outwardly most cool and courteous. "My successor may object. I am bound to consider him. Pardon me. Once!--" The wretched insult and silly emphasis passed harmlessly from her: but a word had led her thoughts to Merthyr's face, and what is meant by the phrase 'keeping oneself pure,' stood clearly in Emilia's mind. She had not winced; and therefore Wilfrid judged that his shot had missed because there was no mark. With his eye upon her sideways, showing its circle wide as a parrot's, he asked her one of those questions that lovers sometimes permit between themselves. "Has another--?" It is here as it was uttered. Eye-speech finished the sentence. Rapidly a train of thought was started in Emilia, and she came to this conclusion, aloud: "Then I love nobody!" For the had never kissed Merthyr, or wished for his kiss. "You do not?" said Wilfrid, after a silence. "You are generous in being candid." A pressure of intensest sorrow bowed his head. The real feeling in him stole to Emilia like a subtle flame. "Oh! what can I do for you?" she cried. "Nothing, if you do not love me," he was replying mournfully, when, "Yes! yes!" rushed to his lips; "marry me: marry me to-morrow. You have loved me. 'I am never to leave you!' Can you forget the night when you said it? Emilia! Marry me and you will love me again. You must. This man, whoever he is--Ah! why am I such a brute! Come! be mine! Let me call you my own darling! Emilia!--or say quietly 'you have nothing to hope for:' I shall not reproach you, believe me." He looked resigned. The abrupt transition had drawn her eyes to his. She faltered: "I cannot be married." And then: "How could I guess that you felt in this way?" "Who told me that I should?" said he. "Your words have come true. You predicted that I should fly from 'that woman,' as you called her, and come to you. See! here it is exactly as you willed it. You--you are changed. You throw your magic on me, and then you are satisfied, and turn elsewhere."