“You have done nothing to give them pain, dear heart,” said he. “They have brought their own pain.... Why did my father sell me? It is not you that come between us, but the shabby husk of him.... The last generation cannot wholly understand. Each new brood must live its own experience. Why should he put the brutalities between you and me? He is not your lover, nor can his choice of loves be mine.... There are limits to obedience. They have nearly starved me, body and soul--they have, by their folly, even turned my hungry eyes to the poor women of the streets. And for so poor a reason.... But”--he looked at her gladly--“you have won me back myself, dear heart--the world is very sweet to me this day.” She bent forward and put her dainty hand upon his cheek: “I love you, Noll--but I wish we had not to steal our meetings.” “It is not your fault, Betty--nor mine. They force us to these secret ways.... I was glad to spend my boyhood openly by your side--I loved you, not knowing it. And they must needs break into our pleasant garden and put us apart--and set us brooding on the very glory they would keep us from. And now what was a pleasant glamour, by their starving of it, has burnt into flaming passion. I am no longer content to see you beautiful by my side; I must kiss you. I love you, Betty--the rest is nothing. We’ll leave the reasons and the excusings to the calculating gods.” He took her hand, and pressed the fingers between his own. And she laughed happily: “The disreputable part of it all is that I love you for it, Noll,” she said. He arose, and gave her his hand: “Come, Betty, I fear you may get chilled,” he said; “you see”--he smiled--“I can even set love’s egotism aside, when yours is the gain, and deny myself the sweetest moments----” She gave him her hand and arose; and they walked into the twilit city together. That night, by the candle-light in his narrow lodging, Noll wrote a letter to Paris, whereby Horace was urged to bestir himself and find rooms for a youth and his bride. CHAPTER XLI _Which discovers something of Despised Poetry in a Waste-paper Basket_ Noll, the door having closed on Betty’s skirts, took his way in the darkness of the lamp-lit night towards Soho. He turned to his most loyal and closest friend to secure him as witness to his marriage. As he went, the young fellow forestalled in his mind all the questions that Gomme’s searching humour might ask. Why was he going to Paris? He scarcely knew. He had some vague idea that he must see life before the creative gift of artistry could be his. He had some even more vague idea that he would see such life in Paris. His instinct told him that life would be easier for Betty there--she would not suffer slight. He knew that life would be gayer at a far smaller price. His young blood was jumping for a change. He must be moving--doing. He roused at Gomme’s doorway, ran up the steps, and rang the bell.