"And what followed?" he continued. "We drifted apart, I to Oxford, and on into the world; and you, like myself, forgot. You married the man who was my best friend; but for what purpose? Claudia, let me speak plainly, as one who is still your friend, although no longer your lover. You married Dick Nevill in order to escape the deadly dulness of Abbots Barton and to enter the kingdom of omnipotence, pleasure and triumphant vanity, as a sure deliverance from all future chance of obscurity. You became at once the idol, the leader, the reigning beauty of your sphere. Poor Dick was the slave of your flimsiest caprice; he ministered to your wishes and was grateful for your slightest smile. He died--died while you were away enjoying yourself on the Riviera--and I--" "No!" she exclaimed wildly, rising to her feet and covering her face with her hands in deep remorse. "No, Dudley! Spare me all that! I know. My God! I know--I know, alas! too well! I never loved him!" "Then if you regard our folly in a proper light, Claudia," he said earnestly, with his hand placed again upon her shoulder, "you will at once see that my decision is for the best." "You intend to leave me?" she asked huskily. "It is the only way," he replied with a catch in his voice. "We have courted scandal sufficiently." "But you cannot cast me off, Dudley?" she cried, suddenly springing towards him and wildly flinging her beautiful arms about his neck. "You shall never leave me, because I love you. Are you blind? Don't you understand? Don't you see that I love you, Dudley?" "You loved me once, in those old days at Winchester," he said, slowly disengaging himself from her embrace. "But not now." "I do!" she cried. "I swear that I do! You are jealous of all those men who flatter me and hang about me wherever I go; but I care nothing for the whole crowd of them. You know me," she went on; "you know that I live only for you--for you." Her words did not correspond with the sentiments she expressed to the woman who had accompanied her to his chambers. He reflected for a moment; then he said: "Admiration I have for you, Claudia, as the most beautiful woman in London, but I think in this discussion we may both omit the word `love' as entirely superfluous. We are children no longer. Let us face the truth. Our acquaintanceship ripened into love while we were yet in our teens. Then in maturer years it faded out completely, the acquaintanceship being renewed only when, on the death of your husband, you wanted a friend--and found one in me." "And now?" she asked. "Now you have other friends--many others." "Ah! you are jealous! I knew you were!" she exclaimed in a reproachful tone of voice, her glorious eyes flashing. "You believe that I don't love you! You believe me capable of lying to you--to you, of all men!" Chisholm remained silent. CHAPTER FOUR. REVEALS A PECCANT PASSION.