He raised a deprecating hand. “No more hospitality,” he said firmly; “you’ve done enough; you’ve lost all your color now.” “Except what I put on with a brush,” she said dryly, clasping her hands and letting her long white arms hang down before her as she looked across at him with a keen glance. “I know--you’ve eaten nothing here since Wicklow broke his word and the rest of it. You won’t eat his bread!” Fox colored. “Should I be here in that case?” he asked. She shook her head, glancing at the fire. “You can’t fool me--I understand.” “Come, I must go,” he said firmly; “it is very late and you look wearied to death. You must be, you were absolutely the life of it to-night; you should have heard old de Caillou rhapsodize!” “Did I do well--did I look my best?” she asked, her lip quivering like a child’s, her eyes still on the fire. “You were your own happy self!” he replied. She looked up, her slight figure swaying a little as she wrung her hands together; the tears rained down her cheeks. “Billy,” she sobbed, “I’m wretched--I--I can’t stand it any longer, it will kill me!” XI FOX stood aghast at the force, the agony, the abandon of Margaret’s confession. Any presentiment which might have warned him had been disarmed by her previous gayety. Almost unconsciously his hand met hers, which was stretched out in a mute appeal. He drew her to a chair. “Sit down,” he said, in an unsteady voice, with an impotent impulse of resistance; “try to calm yourself! This is dreadful!” She obeyed him mechanically; sinking into the great armchair and turning her face against it, she continued to weep, her whole delicate frame shaken and quivering with her emotion. Fox stood still holding her hand and looking down at her in deep perplexity. He was intuitively aware of the extreme peril and delicacy of the situation for them both, only too certain of her wild and unguarded impulses, and that moment--more supremely than ever--revealed to him the absolute demise of his own passion. He tried to quiet her, speaking a few gentle and soothing words, sharply conscious of their inadequacy. But she scarcely heeded them. After a moment the storm spent itself, and she turned, revealing her white, tear-stained face which was still beautiful in spite of her weeping. “There comes a time,” she said, in a low voice, “when one can bear it no longer--when one would rather die.” “For God’s sake, Margaret, don’t say such things!” he exclaimed, profoundly moved. Her lips quivered. “Is it so dreadful to say them?” she retorted passionately; “when you feel them? When they are burned into your flesh? I’m so weary of conventionalities. I tell you that I can’t bear it, that I will not bear it any longer!” As she spoke she rose and stood facing him, her eyes feverishly bright and moist with unshed tears. “You ask too much of me, you have no right to ask it--no one has!” she continued, her lip quivering again; “I cannot be silent--it’s killing me by inches!”