"There is some mystery in all this, Muriel," I said, bending across to her earnestly. "Why do you refuse to explain to me?" "Because I cannot. If I could, I would." "Then if after to-night we are to part," I went on bitterly, "mine will be a dismal future." "You have your own world," she said. "You will quickly forget me among your gay friends, as you have already forgotten me times without number." I could not bear her reproaches; her words cut me to the quick. "No. I have never forgotten you," I protested quickly. "I shall never forget." "Did you not utter those same words to that woman who fascinated you a few months ago?" she suggested with a slight curl of the lip. "If I did, it was because I was beneath the spell of her beauty--a beauty so mysterious as to be almost supernatural," I answered. "I love you nevertheless," I added in a low tone, so that none should overhear. "I swear I do." "It is useless," she exclaimed, with a frown of displeasure. "Further discussion of the subject will lead to no alteration of my decision. You know me well enough to be aware that if I am determined no argument will turn me from my purpose." "But my future depends upon you, Muriel," I cried in despair. "Through years--ever since the old days in Stamford--I have admired you, and as time has progressed, and you have become more beautiful and more refined, my admiration has developed into a true and honest love. Will you never believe me?" "No," she answered. "I can never believe you. Besides, we could never be happy, for our paths in life will lie in very different directions." "That's all foolish sentiment," I exclaimed. "I have to ask permission of no one as to whom I may marry. Why will you not reconsider this decision of yours? You know well--you must have seen long, long ago-- that I love you." "I have already told you my intention," she responded with a frigidity of manner that again crushed all hope from my heart. "To-night must be our last night together. Afterwards we must remember one another only as acquaintances." "No, no!" I protested. "Don't say that." "It must be," she responded decisively. All argument appeared useless, so I remained silent. It was nine o'clock before we left the restaurant, too early for her to return to Madame Gabrielle's, therefore at my invitation she accompanied me to my chambers, and sat with me in my sitting-room for a long time. So long had we been platonic friends that I could not bring myself to believe that that was really her farewell visit. She sat in the same chair in which Aline had sat on the first night when she had so strangely come into my life, and now again she chatted on merrily, as in the old days, inquiring after mutual friends in Stamford, and what changes had been effected in sleepy, lethargic Duddington. I had told her all the latest gossip of the place, when suddenly I observed-- "Just now everybody in the village is taken up with the new curate."