“Because you will not give me those rights. I asked you to marry me once. I came to you, thinking in my small soul that I was doing a fine thing, offering atonement—my—my very words, atonement—for the evil I had unwittingly done. And you refused to accept the prize!” He laughed bitterly. “You refused with scorn, just scorn, Joan. You made me realise that I had but added to my offence. I—I to offer you marriage, in my lordly way, when I should have sued on my knees to you for forgiveness, as I would sue now, humbly and contritely, offering love and love alone—love and worship and service to the end of my days, as please Heaven I shall sue, Joan.” “You cannot!” she said quietly. “You cannot, and if you should, the answer will be the same, as then!” “Because you can never forgive?” “Because I have no power to give what you would ask for!” “Your love?” She did not answer. She turned her face away, for she knew she could not in truth say “No” to that, for the knowledge that she had been trying to stifle was with her now, the knowledge that meant that she could not love the man whose wife she had promised to be. “My—my hand—” she said. And he, not understanding for the moment, looked at her, and then suddenly understanding came to him. “You—you mean?” “You—you did not answer my letter, and I—I waited,” she said, and her voice was low and muffled. There was no pride in her face now; all its hardness, all its bitterness and scorn were gone. “I waited and waited—and thought—hoped,” she said, “and nothing came. And yesterday a man—a man I like and admire, a fine man, a good man, honest and noble, a man who—who loves me better than I deserve, came to me—and—and so to-day it is too late! Though,” she cried, with a touch of scorn for herself, “it would have made no difference—nothing would have made any difference. You—you understand that I scarcely know what I am saying!” “You have given your promise to another man?” he asked quietly. “Yes!” “And you do not love him?” “He’s a man,” she cried, “a man who would not make a jest of a woman’s name.” “And even so, you do not love him, because that would not be possible.” “You have no right to say that,” and she wrenched her hand free. “I have the right, the right you gave me.” “I—I gave you no right.” “You have. You gave me that right, Joan, when you gave me your heart. You do not love that man, because you love me!” Back into the white face came all the hardness and coldness that he so well knew. She rose; she looked down on him. “It is—untrue. I do not. I have but one feeling for you always—always—the same, the one feeling. I despise you. How could I love a thing that I despise?” And, knowing that it was a lie, she dared not meet the scrutiny of his eyes, and turned quickly away. “Joan!” he said. He would have followed her, but then came the waiter with his bill, and he was forced to stay, and when he reached the street she was gone.