“Then you know now,” he retorted, his face very pale, his eyes, that were so sweet, close to hers. “I thought I cared for some one else, then--now I know that I would let everything in this world go to be with you--even honor!” Why did the two last words almost stop her heart, that was beating so quick? Why should Ismay Trelane, to whom honor was but a foolish thing, a mere word, turn cold, to think he would let it go--for her. She flung out her hands with a little cry. “Why should you let it go--for me?” She was panting for breath. “Do you mean that I, who am nobody, and have come here from the gutters, am a thing you could not touch and keep your honor?” “No, no! Not that. Don’t think I dared mean that. It was only a way of saying”--he took one little bare hand, and held it in strong fingers that were very careful--“how much I love you.” “You love me?” For once she was not thinking or acting a part; not thinking of all Cylmer could give her; not thinking of anything but that he was beside her, his voice low in her ears, his hand in hers. “It can’t be true,” she said desperately. “When I came here you loved Cristiane; I saw it in her face when she came in that first day.” For a minute he was staggered. “I thought I did.” And at the truth in his voice Ismay’s heart jumped. “I know now I never did, for I love you. When I kissed you that day I knew that your lips on mine had made me yours to take or leave. Which will you do, Ismay?” “Yet a little time after you said things to my mother that----” She stopped, and did not look at him. “I did not know she was your mother.” “It did not matter. They were true. They are just as true now. Can you love me, knowing them?” For the first time she spoke with a purpose. There must be no slip between the cup and the lip for want of a little plain speaking. “Can I love you? Can I help breathing?” almost angrily. “I tell you I am yours to take or leave. Which is it, Ismay?” She turned her face to him deliberately; as she lifted her chin, he saw the long, lovely line of it, that slipped into her throat; saw the milky whiteness of her oval cheek, that just missed being hollow; saw her eyes, dark and green, full of his own image; saw her lips--the man was dizzy as she spoke. “Take me,” she whispered. “Love me, kill me, it is all one to me, for I--love you!” And in her face there was all that miracle of pure passion that had never shone on Cristiane’s, whom he had thought he loved. With something very near to reverence, Miles Cylmer kissed her. As he let her go, he was shaking. Hand in hand, like two children, they sat, as the winter sun set in a pale glory behind the leafless trees. Ismay looked at him, soft malice in her eyes. “By the way, why are you here on a hunting-day?” she inquired demurely. “I’ve a sore bridle-hand,” he said calmly. She caught the quick look he flashed on her, that was both sweet and mischievous. “What a story, Mr. Cylmer!” childishly. “Mr. who?”