Jerome Caryl made no answer; he thought of his own tangled cause, of the King he fought for, of the shouting, lying, pushing, intriguing mob that followed him, of the weapons they stooped to, and he thought of William of Orange in his little room at Kensington, ruling half Europe and disdaining even to notice their designs against him and it seemed to him he had been striving to oppose a rock with a straw. Delia came suddenly across to him. “I cannot talk to-night,” she said hoarsely, “will you come again to-morrow, Jerome?” He looked at her in a pitying, troubled manner. “You are wondering what is to become of me?” she asked, meeting his glance. “Well, to-morrow will be soon enough: come again to-morrow.” She sat down and turned her face away as if she dismissed him; Jerome Caryl rose heavily. “Do you want money?” asked Delia in a weary voice. “There is plenty—you know Perseus had the last sent over by the King. I have it here.” “It is all too little for your own needs,” he answered. “Keep it, Delia.” Her head had sunk back against the plaster wall. “To-morrow, then,” she said, and seemed as if she wished to say no more; but when he had his hand on the latch he was startled by her: she rose, her apathy changed into sudden passion. “Oh, Jerome! Jerome!” she cried, hurrying to him. “Thank God for such as you. Thank God for truth and honor and faithfulness. Give me your hand and look at me and say—God bless you, Delia!” She swayed toward him with a little sob and caught his arm; he was greatly moved. “While I live, sweet soul,” he answered, “I would not have you fear anything. God bless you truly, dear, God bless you, Delia—” She bent her head and kissed his hand, then lifted her eyes to his with a strange took. “Farewell, Jerome,” she said in a broken voice, and fell back against the wall; the contrast of her pitiful pale youth and the sordid surroundings touched Jerome Caryl deeply. “You must leave this place,” he said. She stopped him with that word again. “To-morrow.” And so, leaning against the wall, she stood till he had gone, then turned about, murmuring to herself. “An honorable gentleman—why could not I have loved an honorable gentleman?” She paced to and fro with unheeding steps. “False and false—liar and dishonored—yet—” Her tears rose beyond control; she fell to her knees and wept with hidden face, bitterly and silently. The fire dropped to a heap of gray ashes; the light had faded when at length Delia rose, and moving to the window, set it wider open. The sun was sinking behind the housetops; heavy snow-laden clouds lay to the right and left of it and the whole west was golden. A cold wind touched her tear-stained face and ruffled her tumbled hair; the sun’s reflection burnt like flame in the window-pane and cast a dazzle along the thin frosting of snow on the ledges opposite.