"Not for me," she interrupted quickly. "I tell you that I am an outcast. Of you, I ask only that you go away--now--before the Baroness returns, and do your best to blot out the memory of that one night from your life. Remember only that you did a generous action. Remember that, and no more." "Too late," he answered; "I cannot do it." "You are a man," she answered, "and you say that?" "It is because I am a man, and you are what you are, that I cannot," he answered slowly. There was a moment's breathless silence. Only he fancied that her face had somehow grown softer. "You must not talk like that," she said. "You do not know what you are saying--who or what I am. Listen! I think I hear the Baroness." She leaned a little forward, and the madness fired his blood. Half stupefied, she yielded to his embrace, her lips rested upon his, her frightened eyes were half closed. His arms held her like a vice, he could feel her heart throbbing madly against his. How long they remained like it he never knew--who can measure the hours spent in Paradise! She flung him from her at last, taking him by surprise with a sudden burst of energy, and before he could stop her she had left the room. In her place, the Baroness was standing upon the threshold, dressed in a wonderful blue wrapper, and with a cigarette between her teeth. She burst into a little peal of laughter as she looked into his distraught face. "For an Englishman," she remarked, "you are a little rapid in your love affairs, my dear Mr. Wrayson, is it not so? So she has left you _planté là_!" "I--was mad," Wrayson muttered. The Baroness helped herself to whisky and soda. "Come again and make your peace, my friend," she said. "You will see no more of her to-night." Wrayson accepted the hint and went. CHAPTER XI FALSE SENTIMENT With his nerves strung to their utmost point of tension Wrayson walked homeward with the unseeing eyes and mechanical footsteps of a man unable as yet fully to collect his scattered senses. But for him the events of the evening were not yet over. He had no sooner turned the key in the latch of his door and entered his sitting-room, than he became aware of the fact that he had a visitor. The air was fragrant with tobacco smoke; a man rose deliberately from the easy-chair, and, throwing the ash from his cigarette into the fire, turned to greet him. Wrayson was so astonished that he could only gasp out his name. "Heneage!" he exclaimed. Heneage nodded. Of the two, he was by far the more at his ease. "I wanted to see you, Wrayson," he said, "and I persuaded your housekeeper--with some difficulty--to let me wait for your arrival. Can you spare me a few minutes?" "Of course," Wrayson answered. "Sit down. Will you have anything?" Heneage shook his head. "Not just now, thanks!" Wrayson took off his hat and coat, threw them upon the table, and lit a cigarette. "Well," he said, "what is it?"