She continued as though she had not heard him, and with a little tremor in her voice. “You said some pretty things about my being an angel, and I asked you what you knew of me; and you said that you knew only what your eyes had shown you, and what your heart had told you. Oh, John, does your heart tell you nothing now?” “I do not understand you,” said John, steadily. “To be sure you have forgotten all that passed. I suppose, too, that you have forgotten about those wanderings of ours in the alleys yonder, when the leaves were green, and the roses were blowing. I stumbled once, and you made me take your arm, and I felt it trembling beneath my hand. Think of that, Mr Cotley! Were you not a foolish youth in those days? And so we walked together, and told each other wonderful things, and I asked you to think kindly of me always. Ah, John, I fear you have not kept your word.” He, too, had risen and stood before her, rigid, with hands dropping by his side, and a grey face. “Then they called me,” she went on, with a thrill in her musical voice, her face earnest now and glowing, “they called me—there was but one moment left: I gave you a flower, but you said it was not enough—you took my hands and—” Bending forward suddenly she seized his; they were limp and cold as ice; “You took my hands,” she repeated, her voice still vibrating, her eyes fixed passionately on his, “you fell on your knees at my feet as I kneel to you now, you said, you said—oh, let me say it!—“Love, love, stoop to me!” John Cotley gave one glance at the pleading, upturned face, at the beautiful eyes swimming in tears, and then he withdrew his hands. “You have surpassed yourself, madam,” he said. “You are certainly a marvellous actress. Your rendering of the scene was absolutely perfect.” She was on her feet in a moment, dashing the tears from her eyes and laughing unsteadily. “I was determined to convince you of my powers,” cried she, in a voice which feigned lightness though it was husky and ill-assured. “There, you should feel proud, Mr Cotley, that so famed a personage should give you a performance all to yourself. . . . The storm shows no signs of abating, I fear, so I will not trespass further on your hospitality. I am much obliged to you, Mr Cotley, for your entertainment, and now I think I will take my leave. My cloak and hood lie yonder—I thank you”—as he assisted her to put them on. “Now, sir, if you will have the kindness to open the gate I will pursue my way.” They were out of the house by this time, and she passed in front of him towards the gate. When she reached it she paused, and curtsied with averted eyes. “Farewell, sir, I have to thank you for your generosity and kindness. I need trouble you to come no further.”