Elise slowly raised her eyes to his. There was no smile upon her face, but as she turned it to him it was ineffably sweet, and a smile was in her heart. But she was startled by his look. His was not the face of a lover, whether triumphant, despondent, hopeful or militant. She did not know that he had not been able to banish his mother from his thought for a waking moment since he parted with her at her mother’s bed-side the night before. "Will you—be my wife, Elise?" Never before in all the world was that question asked in such a voice. Its tone like a dagger of ice touched the girl’s heart with a deadly chill. She looked steadily and long into his eyes. At last with a little shiver she murmured inaudibly "_noblesse oblige_"—and answered his question: "No, Mr. Rutledge, I will not be your wife." Her words were as cold as her heart, and her self-possession as cold as either. She was surprised that her answer did not bring the faintest shadow of relief to Rutledge’s drawn face—rather a greater distress. A tingle of fire shot through her bosom. (It was not too late—oh why did he not take her in his arms.) "No, I will not be your wife," she repeated slowly. (It was not yet too late—oh why—) "I am deeply sensible of the honour you—" "Stop! Don’t say that! In God’s name don’t say that! Don’t add mockery to—" "Mr. Rutledge!" For the moment Rutledge forgot that there was any person in the world other than Elise and himself. "You _have_ mocked me—you have _played_ with me! And—" "Will you please go, Mr. Rutledge!" "Played with me—yes—as if I were the simplest—oh well, I have been—and you—you have been—you are—an artist. Tell me that you do not love me, that you have only laughed at me. Tell me!" he sneered. "Go, I say! Oh, _can’t_ you _go_!" "Yes, I’ll go—when you say it. Tell me! Do you love me—have you ever loved me?—the veriest little bit?" "Never. Not the veriest little bit," she said, looking straight at him. "That’s it!—the truth at last—spoken like a m—like a lady!"—he bowed mockingly at her—"and it proves you are false—false, do you understand?—unspeakably false! And I have loved you like m—but very well, it’s better so—perhaps." He turned to go; but turned quickly about. "I’ll kiss you once if I swing for it!—for what I thought you were"—and, for a moment robbed by anger of his sense of proprieties, with unpardonable roughness he crushed and kissed her, flung her violently from him, and went, without looking back at her. * * * * *