She put him off with both hands. "No, no, no! I can say nothing! It is impossible. You must not think of me. I shall go home, and you must forget." "Never! I am bound to you for life—till death—beyond death! There is a love which death cannot touch. My love for you is that sort. It will live while I live—in this world or in a dozen other worlds." A faint wonder passed through her mind. If her surmise were true, if indeed his was a life of fraud, could he cheerfully speak of death? But he was a man; of course he could. He would carry out his deceit consistently. Her heart rebelled anew. It could not be! He was "not" that sort! She would not, did not, believe it. Through all doubts and suspicions, how she loved! How she longed to give herself over to him! Even—with this risk, to take him. But she could not marry one whom she might not respect. There was nothing for it but to wait. "You must not think of me," she said, and she stood up. "I can't say more. Some day, perhaps, if you should want it still, I might be able then; not now. And you are free." "Free! But this is awful. Free till when?" She could only sob. He took a sterner tone. "You have not treated me fairly. You have given me reason to hope." "I know," she whispered. "And if I had seen—" "Then you thought you could. You did not see earlier—this that stands in the way. It is something new." "Yes." "Since when?" She made no reply. "I cannot conceive what obstacle exists, unless—Phyllys, do you 'not' care for me?" He said the words masterfully, and she was again silent. To give a decisive "Yes" or a decisive "No" seemed to be equally out of the question. He gathered a grain of hope. "One thing at least you will allow. I may speak again. How soon?" "Oh, not for a long while, please!" He caught her hand, and covered it with kisses. She burst into fresh tears, and hurried away. CHAPTER XXXIV A FLARE-UP AND ITS SEQUELÆ LITTLE more was seen of Giles that afternoon. But distressed though he was, he could not be called hopeless; for at least he knew with almost certainty that his love was returned. The obstacle, whatever it was, might be cleared away. He was unable to regard Phyllys' refusal as decisive. Meeting her alone an hour later he said gravely— "May we go on as before—no marked change. I will not worry you. But we are cousins still—friends, perhaps?" She gave him a grieved glance, for it was hard to have to check him, and acquiesced. Mrs. Keith was in one of her highly-strung conditions, unable to keep still. Phyllys wondered if something fresh had occurred. She was incessantly getting up to pace the room, to gaze out of the window. Even when the autumn day had drawn in, she still kept pulling aside the heavy curtain, looking into the dusk. So strange was her manner that Phyllys was fain to question anew—"'Could' she be right in her brain, or had long trouble upset the mind's balance?"