She stared, dumb and scarlet, the terror in her questioning eyes was the finest compliment ever paid him: he smiled again with his curious Puritanical haughtiness as if even while he led her on, he despised himself and her. “Would you find me a man easy to care for?” he said again. “I wonder—for I—” She interrupted: “Sir—I do not think you have failed to find those who would answer that question.” “Ah, let me speak,” he said gently, “let me say that I do find you made to be loved—” “Sir! do you usually so play with words with every stranger?” she cried. “Why, never before,” he smiled, “and are we strangers—did you not say we had one creed—one King—one aim?” “Ah, I do think you palter with me!” cried Delia with the distress of one drawn and netted against her will. “Mr. Caryl is late—” “I would he were later,” said Mr. Wedderburn. “There is no need for me to keep you company,” she answered faintly. “No need?” His manner flashed into the overbearing. “Not if I ask you to stay?” “I will go.” “Why?” His blue eyes lifted imperiously. “Miss Delia—do you dislike me?” “I do not know you,” she faltered. His face darkened. “Ah, yes, you know me as much in these moments as you ever will—I know you—to the bottom of your white heart.” “Know me?” she winced and blushed. “I know you do not dislike me,” he said, studying her curiously. “Though your lips may say so.” She answered bravely. “Sir—I have not taught them to lie.” He came a little nearer to her and again she was aware of the strong perfume he carried, overcoming, stupefying her. “So,” he said, “you cannot lie, and if I said—ah—if I said—” He broke off with a little reckless laugh; his shadow was upon her; his presence seemed to fill the world; she could no more escape it than she could the air about her; she could only shrink away, trembling against the wall. “If I said—I love you,” he asked softly, “you who cannot lie—would say—some day I might love you—would you not?” “When you tell me that in seriousness,” she answered panting, “in seriousness I will reply.” His beautiful eyes laughed. “Sophistry,” he said. “Come, is life so long that we may wait years to say what in one moment we know is true—we have not met for nothing—by Heaven, no!” “Then leave it at that,” faltered Delia. “Say no more—ah, for pity!” With that gentle little cry it seemed to him that his hand closed over her and that he held her soul, simple and white, as he pictured it to do with as he would. Thinking so he gave her his strange, vacant look, while she crept away and he fell back into the gloom, surveying her sideways coldly. The pause, terrible to Delia, was broken by the abrupt entrance of Jerome Caryl. “Ah,” he said; “I was told you were here.” He glanced at Mr. Wedderburn and his brows went up ever so slightly. “The password, sir?” he asked, his hand on the door.