She hesitated momentarily. Then: “It may be because I don’t know you well enough,” she said. There was something in his eyes that besought her. Again involuntarily she thought of a wounded animal. “Not well enough to hate me?” he said. “Not well enough to judge,” she answered quietly. She saw his throat move spasmodically. His eyes left hers. “I would rather be hated—than tolerated—by you,” he said, almost under his breath. His hold upon her had slackened; she slipped her hand away. “Won’t you have your tea?” she said. “I am sure you will feel the better for it.” He made an odd sound that might have been an effort at laughter, and stretched out his hand for the cup. She stood beside him while he drank, and took it from him when he had finished. “Eat some toast while I pour you out some more!” she said. “I made the toast for you,” he said. “It doesn’t matter,” she returned. “It does matter.” He leaned across the table for the loaf. “Bread will do for me. And you will drink some tea yourself before you give me any more.” She heard the dominant note returning in his voice. “I shall do as I think best,” she said, but she complied, for something in the glance of those fevered eyes compelled. They ate and drank together thereafter in unbroken silence until he rose to go. Then, his cap once more in his hand, he paused, looking across at her. “So you have decided to reserve judgment for the present?” he said. She met his look steadily, though her heart quickened a little. “For the present—yes,” she said. He still looked at her. “And if you find—some day—that I can behave other than as a brute-beast, will you perhaps—manage to forget?” To forget! The word, uttered so humbly, brought the quick tears to her eyes. She turned her face aside. “Why don’t you ask me to—forgive?” she said, her voice very low. “Because I won’t ask the impossible,” he answered. “Because you tell me you are human, and—well, some things are past forgiveness. I know that.” He swung round with the words. She heard him open the door, heard again the drip and patter of the rain outside, heard the heavy tread of his feet as he went out. Then, when she knew that she was alone, her strength went from her. She covered her face and wept. In that hour she knew that she was chained indeed, beyond all hope of escape. Brute-beast as he described himself—murderer at heart as she believed him to be—yet had he implanted that within her heart which she could never cast out. Whatever he was, whatever he did, could make no difference now. She loved him. CHAPTER VII THE MESSAGE “The doctor says it can’t possibly go on much longer.” “But if it does—if it does——” “Oh, Lucy, do stop crying! What’s the good? You’ll make yourself ill, child, if you go on.” “I can’t help it—I can’t help it. Mother looked like death just now.” “That’s only because of something the Beast said. Oliver told me——”