Mr. Galloway, when he was departing, beckoned Constance into the hall. It was only to give her a word of friendly sympathy, of advice--not to be overwhelmed, but to cling to hope. She thanked him, but it was with an aching heart, for Constance could not feel this hope. “Will you grant me the favour of a minute’s private interview?” asked Mr. Yorke stiffly, meeting her in the hall. Constance hesitated a moment. He was asking what she felt he had no right to ask. She coloured, bowed, and stepped towards the drawing-room. Mr. Yorke threw open the door for her, and followed her in. Then he became agitated. Whatever his pride or his temper may have been, whether the parting between them was his fault or Constance’s, it was certain that he loved her with an enduring love. Until that morning he had never contemplated losing Constance; he had surely looked forward to some indefinite future when she should be his; and the words spoken by Roland had almost driven him mad. Which was precisely what Mr. Roland hoped they would do. “I would not speak to you to-day, when you are in distress, when you may deem it an unfitting time for me to speak,” he began, “but I _cannot_ live in this suspense. Let me confess that what brought me here was to obtain this interview with you, quite as much as this other unhappy business. You will forgive me?” “Mr. Yorke, I do not know what you can have to speak about,” she answered, with dignity. “My distress is great, but I can hear what you wish to say.” “I heard--I heard”--he spoke with emotion, and went plunging abruptly into his subject--“I heard this morning that Lord Carrick was soliciting you to become his wife.” Constance could have laughed, but for her own distress, agitated though he was. “Well, sir?” she coldly said, in a little spirit of mischief. “Constance, you cannot do it,” he passionately retorted. “You cannot so perjure yourself!” “Mr. Yorke! Have you the right to tell me I shall or shall not marry Lord Carrick?” “You can’t do it, Constance!” he repeated, laying his hand upon her shoulder, and speaking hoarsely. “You know that your whole affection was given to me! It is mine still; I feel that it is. You have not transferred it to another in this short time. You do not love and forget so lightly.” “Is this all you have to say to me?” “No, it is not all,” he answered, with emotion. “I want you to be _my_ wife, Constance, not his. I want you to forget this miserable estrangement that has come between us, and come home to me at Hazledon.”