“I didn’t know. I had thought——” She stopped; Joan’s name must not be mentioned now if she loved him; if—nay, she must love him, and he would find it out by-and-by; he could not but be fond of her. Only give them time; he was vexed with her for the moment; it would all come right. Nevertheless it was hard to give him her answer. “Mr. Meade,” she said, speaking more firmly now, “it is very good of you. I thank you very much. I can’t listen to you; it is better not.” “Are you engaged to that man who went to New Zealand?” “My cousin? No, certainly not; why should you think so?” “Joan said something about it, that is partly why I determined to know my fate at once.” “You must have misunderstood her altogether. When did you see her last?” “About a fortnight ago. I can’t remember,” he replied, impatiently. “I believe your whole thoughts are wrapped up in her.” “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to vex you. Can’t we be friends, at least?” Up to the present moment she had indeed been thinking how she could best make a reconciliation possible between him and Joan. With a sharp pang it struck her that perhaps after all she was in the wrong. “Listen,” he said; “I am in earnest, in bitter earnest. You believe me, don’t you?” “Yes,” said Embrance. “Thank you. I was sure of that, at least. I care so much that I can’t stay here any longer, coming to see you like a stranger, and having no right to help you in any way whatever. I have seen enough in the last few months to guess a little what your work is. No; let me say it out to the end. Before I knew you I fancied that you were selfish and indifferent. Heaven knows how wrong I was! If I can’t win your love, it is my own fault. Embrance, don’t decide in a hurry. Think it over. I love you. Give me a chance.” They had reached the crowded thoroughfare. Gaslights were flaring; the road was thronged with cabs and carts; the people were pushing along the pavement, too busy to notice the quiet couple, or to observe that the plain girl in an ulster had a white face, and that the lines of her mouth were set with pain and suffering. Across the street, in a few minutes, they were in a dreary square. Here there were no loiterers. A murky grey sky; black trees, flinging their gaunt arms to the chimney pots; rows of melancholy stone houses, with carved heads, placidly unconcerned, gazing down from the lintels. In vain she strove to find words to tell him her perplexity. How could she accept this gift from his hands, believing as she did that the child at home was longing to make friends with him? How should she return and look her friend in the face, saying, “I have stolen your lover”? “Embrance, be patient with me,” Joan had said. “Embrance, don’t give me up.” Then she turned and put her hand into Horace’s. Her fingers were cold as ice, but they did not tremble. “I can’t; don’t ask me,” she cried under her breath.