"But you have reproached me!" she cried in a hard voice. "You tell me this with such a _nonchalant_ air that it has at last awakened me to the bitter truth--you don't love me!" "I have spoken as much for your own good as for mine," he answered. "We must end this folly, Claudia--we--" "Folly! You call my love folly!" she exclaimed, starting forward. Life had been so fair with her. The years had gone by in one continual blaze of triumph. She was the smart Lady Richard Nevill, whose name was on everybody's tongue; she was satiated with offers of love. And yet this man had coldly exposed to her the naked truth. Intoxicated with homage, indulgence, extravagance and pleasure, her conscience had become stifled and her memory killed; her heart scarcely knew how to beat without the throbs of vanity or triumph. So she had lived her life in freedom-- absolute freedom. Vague rumours had been whispered in the boudoirs of Berkeley Square and Grosvenor Gardens concerning her, but with the sceptre of her matchless loveliness and the skill of a born tactician, she cleared all obstacles, overruled all opponents, bore down all hesitations, and silenced all sneers. "Folly?--you call my love folly, Dudley?" "We have both been foolish, Claudia--very foolish," he answered, facing her and looking gravely into her dark eyes, in which shone the light of unshed tears. "People are talking, and we must end our folly." "And you fear that the teacup tittle-tattle of my enemies may endanger your official position and retard your advancement, eh?" she asked, knitting her dark brows slightly. "Of late our names have been coupled far too frequently--mainly owing to our own indiscretions." "Well, and if they have?" she asked defiantly. "What matters? The amiable gossips have coupled my name quite falsely with a dozen different men during the past twelve months, and am I a penny the worse for it? Not in the least. No, my dear Dudley, you may just as well admit the truth. Your father has written to you about your too frequent presence in my society and our too frequent teas on the terrace--he told Lady Uppingham so, and she, of course, told me. He has asked you to cut me as a--well, as an undesirable acquaintance." "What my father has written is my own affair, Claudia," he answered. "You know me well, and we have hidden few secrets from one another. Surely we may part friends." "Then you actually mean what you've said?" she asked, opening her magnificent eyes to their full extent, as with a sigh she raised herself from her former attitude of luxurious laziness. "Most certainly! It has pained me to speak as I have done, and I can only crave your forgiveness if anything I've said has caused you annoyance. But we have to face the hard and melancholy fact that we must end it all."