"I was obliged to make him unhappy," she answered. "I do not love him." "Why?" he repeated yet again; but his voice had sunk into a whisper. "Because," she said, trembling all over now--"because I cannot." He could not utter another word. There was such danger for him, and his perilled honor, in her simple tremor and sadness, that he was forced to be silent. It was not safe to follow M. Maurien at least. But, as might be anticipated, their conversation flagged in no slight degree. The hearts of both were so full of one subject that it would have been hard to force them to another. Theo, upon her low _sultane_, sat mute with drooped eyes, becoming more silent every moment. Oglethorpe, in regarding her beautiful downcast face, forgot himself also. It was almost half an hour before he remembered he had not made the visit without an object. He had something to say to her--something he had once said to her before. He was going away again, and had come to tell her so. But he recollected himself at last. "I must not forget that I had a purpose in coming here to-night," he said. "A purpose?" she repeated, after him. "Yes," he answered. "I found last night, on returning to my hotel, that there was a letter awaiting me from London--from my employers, in fact. I must leave Paris to-morrow morning." "And will you not come back again?" she added, breathlessly almost. The news was so sudden that it made her breathless. This was the last time--the very last! They might never see each other again in this world, and if they did ever chance to meet, Priscilla Gower would be his wife. And yet he was standing there now, only a few feet from her, so near that her outstretched hand would touch him. The full depth of misery in the thought flashed upon her all at once, and drove the blood back to her heart. "Why?" she gasped out unconsciously, through the very strength of her pangs. "You are going away forever." She scarcely knew that she had uttered the words until she saw how deathly pale he grew. The beads of moisture started out upon his forehead, and his nervous hand went up to brush them away. "Not forever, I trust," he said, huskily. "Only until--until--" "Until July," she ended for him; "until you are married to Miss Priscilla Gower." She held up one little, trembling, dusky hand, and actually began to tell the intervening months off her fingers. She was trying so hard to calm herself that she did not think what she was doing. She only knew she must do or say something. "How many months will it be?" she said. "It is February now; March, April, May, June, July. Five months--not quite five, perhaps. We may not be here then. Lady Throckmorton intends to visit the Spas during the summer."