She paused, for at this moment, the parlor maid appeared and, gathering up some brasses on Lady Heathcote’s desk, went out of the room. “I beg that you will be more careful, Doris,” Cyril whispered. She was silent a moment, and then after a glance at the dining-room door, went on with more restraint. “Pity and contempt are hardly the kind of ingredients that love can live on. They’ve poisoned mine. It’s dead. I don’t want to see you again,” she finished coldly--“ever. I hope you understand.” He bowed his head and for a moment made no reply. “I asked----” he said slowly, “I hoped--that you would be willin’ to trust me--that you’d wait until I was able to speak to you--to explain the--the things you do not understand.” “Unfortunately,” she put in distinctly, “there is nothing that I do not understand. I know--God help you!--what you are. I have done what I can to save you from the fate you’re courting--and I shall still do so, for the sake of--of what once was--was between us. But I do not want to see you again. I have put you out of my life--completely--as though you never had been in it. And now,” she rose, “will you let me go?” “One moment, please,” he said calmly. “You found those papers last night?” “Yes,” she said coolly. “And if I did?” He seemed to breathe more freely. “I have nothing to say,” he muttered. “Oh,” she said quickly, “I’m glad of that. You don’t deny----?” “I deny nothing,” he said with a shrug. “I see that it would be useless.” “I’m glad you give me credit for that much intelligence,” she said scathingly. “You haven’t done so before.” “It was not your intelligence,” he said gently, “so much as your heart that I had relied upon.” “Oh, you thought I was a fool that you could use--indefinitely----” “No. I thought you were a woman that I could count on indefinitely.” Something in the tone of his own voice made her turn and look at him. “A woman--yes, but not an enemy of England.” He was silent again, and when he spoke it was not to argue. His voice was subdued--shamed even it seemed. “And now--I suppose you will give the--the papers to Sandys,” he said. She examined him closely and pity for him seemed even stronger than shame. “It is a part of our misunderstanding,” she said coolly, “that you should think so little of me. I have told you that I shall protect you. My hands shall be clean, if my heart isn’t.” “What will you do with the papers?” he asked. “This,” and she turned toward him--“burn them.” She put her hand into her pocket, drew out the papers and went toward the hearth. Her hand was even extended toward the fire when, with a quick movement, he snatched the yellow packet from her fingers. She fell away from him in dismay, as if she had been touched by something poisonous, touching her wrist and the fingers into which her rings had been driven. Then she hid her face in her hands and closed her eyes. “Oh!” she gasped. “You’d pay my generosity--with _this_!”