“I will tell you the truth,” I said. “Afterwards, if you allude to the matter at all I shall go away at once. The girl has it in her power, as you know, to do us terrible harm. She, of her own accord, offered to forego that power forever--although she is quite ignorant of its extent--if I would not see or talk with you. She was a little fool to make the offer, of course, but I should have been more foolish still if I had not accepted it. She imagined that our relative positions were different. However, that is of no consequence, of course. I made the bargain, and I kept my part of it. I avoided you, and I left the neighborhood. You have reminded me that I am not keeping to the letter of my agreement in being here with you. I should prefer your leaving me, as I can find my way home quite well alone.” “It is unnecessary,” he said. “The agreement is off. Miss Berdenstein and I have had an understanding.” “You are engaged, then?” I faltered. “Well, no,” he said, coolly, “I should perhaps have said a misunderstanding.” “Tell me the truth at once,” I demanded. “I am most anxious to do so,” he answered. “She was, as you remarked, a little fool. She became sentimental, and I laughed at her. She became worse, and I put her right. That was last night. She was silly enough to get into a passion, and from her incoherencies I gathered the reason why you were so unapproachable those last few days at the Vicarage. That is why I got up at six o’clock this morning and rode into Eastminster.” “Have you come here this morning?” I asked. “Yes, it’s only thirty miles,” he answered, coolly. “I wanted to see you.” I was silent for a few moments. This was news indeed. What might come of it I scarcely dared to think. A whole torrent of surmises came flooding in upon me. “Where is she?” I asked. “In London, I should think, by this time,” he answered. I drew a long breath of relief. To be rid of her for a time would be happiness. “I believe,” he continued, “that she intends to return to Paris.” After all it was perhaps the best thing that could happen; if she had been in earnest--and I knew that she had been in earnest--she would hate England now. At any rate she would not want to come back again just yet. My face cleared. After all it was good news. “She has gone--out of our lives, I hope,” he said, quietly, “and in her hysterics she left one little legacy behind for me--and that is hope. I know that I am not half good enough for you,” he said, with an odd little tremble in his tone, “but you have only seen the worst of me. Do you think that you could care for me a little? Would you try?” Then when I should have been strong I was pitiably weak. I struggled for words in despair. He was so calm, so strong, so confident. How was I to stand against him? “It is impossible,” I said; “you know who I am. I shall never marry.” He laughed at me scornfully.