"The life you have led?" said he, rather breathlessly; "Why—a—a beautiful life—an idyllic life—constant travel—and always treated with such kindness and care and affection—an ideal life—why, who would not envy you?" She was sobbing—with her head averted. "Don’t, Vincent, don’t! I cannot—I will not—tell you," she said, in a kind of despair. "What is the use? But it is you who have made me think—it is you who have shown me clearly what I have been. I—I was young—I was only a child; my grandfather was everything to me; whatever he did was right. And now I have become a woman since I knew you—I can see myself—and I know that never, never can I be your wife." "Maisrie!" But she paid no heed. She was strangely excited. She rose to her feet: and for a moment he thought he saw a look of her grandfather in her face. "And yet even in my degradation—my degradation," she said, repeating the words with cruel emphasis, "I have some pride. I know what your friends think of me: or I can guess. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps the stories you spoke of were all to be believed. That is neither here nor there now. But, at least, they need not be afraid that I am coming to them as a suppliant. I will not bring shame upon them; they have nothing to fear from me." He regarded her with astonishment, and with something of reproach also: these proud tones did not sound like Maisrie’s voice. And all of a sudden she changed. "Why, Vincent, why," she said, "should you put yourself in opposition to your friends? Why give up all the splendid future that is before you? Why disappoint all the hopes that have been formed of you——?" "If need were, for the sake of your love, Maisrie," he said. "My love?" she said. "But you have that, Vincent—and—and you shall have that always!" And here she burst into a passionate fit of weeping; and in vain he tried to soothe her. Nay, she would not have him speak. "Let this be the last," she said, through her bitter sobs. "Only—only, Vincent, don’t go away with any doubt about that in your mind. I love you!—I shall love you always!—I will give my life to thinking of you—when you are far too occupied—ever to think of me. Will you believe me, Vincent!—Will you believe, always, that I loved you—that I loved you too well to do what you ask—to become a drag on you—and a shame." The tears were running down her cheeks; but she kept her eyes fixed bravely and piteously on him, as she uttered her wild, incoherent sentences. "My dearest—my dearest in all the world—will you remember—will you believe that always? Will you say to yourself, ’Wherever Maisrie is at this moment, she loves me—she is thinking of me.’ Promise me, Vincent, that you will never doubt that! No—you need not put it into words: your heart tells you that it is true. And now, Vincent, kiss me!—kiss me, Vincent!—and then good-bye!"