The answer was so low that she had almost to guess at it from the motion of his lips, "Have you forgotten Napoleon's last rallying-cry, '_Qui m'aime me suit?_'" No wonder that his pulse would throb exultantly as he saw the bright, beautiful blush that swept over his companion's cheek and brow! They had almost reached home when he spoke again, "You would have been liberal in your promises twenty minutes ago if I had not stopped you, Miss Tresilyan. I _should_ like to have some memorial of to-day. Very childish, is it not? Will you give me _this_? I deserve something for saving that pretty parasol." He touched the glove she had just drawn off--a light riding-gauntlet, fancifully cut, and embroidered with silk. Cecil hesitated, though she would have been loth to refuse him any thing just then. She felt, as most proud, sensitive women feel the first time they are asked for what may be interpreted into a _gage d'amour_. The tribute may be nominal, and the suzerain may be lenient indeed, but none the less does it establish vassalage. Royston interpreted her reluctance aright, and went on with an earnestness very unusual with him: for once it was honest and true. "Pray trust me. The moment I cease to value that _souvenir_ as it deserves, on my honor I will return it." He was fated to triumph all through that day. When Cecil was alone she put something away with a very unnecessary carefulness, for surely nothing can be more valueless than a glove that has lost its mate. CHAPTER XIII. I am almost ashamed to confess how deeply the scene she had witnessed affected Cecil Tresilyan. The exhibition of Keene's fierce temper ought certainly to have warned, if it did not disgust her. She could only think--"It was for my sake that he was so angry, and he yielded to my first word."