She kneeled before him, and bent her head, and planted little kisses on his clenched hands. "No," he cried, jumping up. "I will not permit myself simply to drift. If _you_ think as you do, you who are willing to sacrifice everything--very well! But I, who am the recipient, I must make everything clear to you, so that you know for whom you are making the sacrifice. I mustn't leave any possibilities open to mislead you. I'm nothing but a poor young fellow who lives by his uncle's bounty. I have no prospects. I can't build on my work. And the few articles I write don't count. I must first toil for my little place in the world. It may be ten years before I secure it. And I can't let you support me. Think what you will of me, but I must tell you: we cannot become husband and wife." At first she scarcely comprehended. It was impossible for her to realise that a man could be so naïve, so unworldly as to speak of marriage in Lilly Czepanek's drawing-room. She burst into a strident laugh, the overflow of her scorn of her own worthless life. "Do you think," she cried, jumping to her feet, "that I'm nothing but an adventuress who tries to rope men into marriage, one of those harpies"--Mrs. Jula's word occurred to her--"who pounce upon every passerby? For what sort of a sorry wretch do you take me?" He looked into her face with astonished, uncomprehending eyes. "A woman who loves a man and wants to be the joy of his life is not a sorry wretch." Oh, if that was what he meant! The time when in all innocence she had wanted to be Richard's wife recurred to her. How long ago was it? How low she must have sunk if this most natural conception of the relation between man and woman should have become strange to her! She shuddered, and was aware of having turned pale. If only he had noticed nothing amiss. She could stand much, but not that. Humbly, in dread of his searching eyes, she replied: "I merely wanted to let you know that you are free and will remain free from first to last. You can leave whenever you want to, and nothing will have been." "And you?" he asked. "What do you mean--I?" "As what will you remain behind if I go?" "I'll take care of that," she laughed. The contingency was very, very remote. Why split her head over it now? But he was not yet satisfied. "There's something peculiar about you. A whiff of mystery. A--a--how shall I say? The shadow of a wrong done you. You mingle much in society, you say. Yet I have the feeling that you are lonely and perhaps unprotected. Whenever I try to look into you, I feel as if rude hands had been laid on you. From now on I will stand by to protect and advise you. But I'm so inexperienced in worldly matters. It can easily come about that without divining it I may merely add to the mischief in your life. And I would not for the world--you are holy to me. So you must tell me now, to-night, whatever you may of what you have gone through and suffered. Will you?"