‘Why do you speak of shame, Nita?’ he asked, looking tenderly into her piteous face. ‘What shame can there possibly be in giving way to such a generous impulse, and in showing a lonely, fallen man that there is one sweet woman left who cares for him, and would make him happy if she might? Heaven bless you, dear, for such goodness. But you know–you must know, why I cannot take you in my arms and say, “I accept that goodness, and offer you my life’s devotion in return for it.” You know it would be the basest conduct on my part towards your father, who has treated me with unheard-of goodness. I know he wishes you to marry, and I know he would consider it the height of presumption in _me_ to ask for you.’ ‘Oh, don’t speak of such things–of marriage and such horrors!’ she almost moaned, struggling to free her hands; but he went on: ‘No, I must face my future as best I may, and it will be with the better cheer from the knowledge that goodness such as yours exists–goodness which I worship and honour all the more in that you have made it known to me.’ ‘Oh, don’t! don’t speak of it! I cannot bear it!’ she cried, wrenching her hands away, and again covering her face from his sight. She felt as if she were in some strange, delirious dream. Wellfield’s looks and tones thrilled through every nerve. Did he love her? Did he mean that if he dared, he would tell her so? She knew not what to think. She only knew that _he knew_, and that say or do what she might, she could never undo the fact that she had betrayed herself; and that the one thing which would have made it all right–would have made the difference between a nightmare and a vision of Paradise–the knowledge that he loved her–was wanting. Yes, despite his caressing tones, his eloquent eyes, his tender words, she did not understand that he loved her. ‘Do not be so distressed,’ he said. ‘I will never speak of it again, if you desire me to be silent. I will forget it–anything–only, dear, do not be so unhappy!’ ‘I hear them coming,’ said Nita, her ear preternaturally quick. ‘I hear their voices. I cannot see them–they must not see me. Tell them–tell them I am ill–for I am–and–let me go!’ ‘Yes–stop one moment, Nita!’ he answered, clasping his arm round her waist, as she was darting past him. ‘Let me go!’ she breathed again, but her voice died away as his lips met hers–once and again, and he said, in a low, passionate voice: ‘There! We have that, whatever may happen in the future. Nita–_my_ Nita!’ He loosed his arm, and she had flashed past him, and out of the room, in a second. Jerome was left standing on the rug, feeling, he too, as if he had just gone through some mad fit of delirium. What had hurried him on to that act of a moment ago? He stood with bated breath, and eyebrows drawn together–then breathing again, a long, nervous breath, he muttered: ‘By G–, I am a villain!’