"Pity me! Ah, you well may," cries Keith, softening a little at the low, tender voice, and the misery on the young, white face. "God knows I need it. Go--go, while I have strength to let you. If you knew what a hell is in my heart at this present moment, you would wonder I could bid you leave me now. It would be easier to kill you than know I send you back to your--husband." She shudders as he says those words. He has turned away, so that he may not see the fatally fair face--the drooping grace of the lovely figure round which the costly satin falls in gleaming folds. She moves away; then looks back. His head is bent down on his arms--a sob shakes the strong young frame. It goes to her heart like a knife. Impulsively she approaches, and lays one little hand caressingly on his arm. "Dear Keith, don't grieve--don't fret for me. You are right. I was never worth your love--never! I deserve all the unhappiness that Fate can bring. But first say you forgive me this once; I cannot bear to part in anger from you." Dangerously soft, dangerously sweet is the pretty voice. It goes straight to the aching heart to which she appeals. With a strong effort he conquers his emotion and looks up--how haggard, how altered is the bright young face she remembers! "I was a brute to say what I did just now," he exclaims, with rapid contrition. "I am half-mad with pain. Yes, Lorry, I will try and forgive you, though it is horribly hard. You are not a man; you don't know--oh God! how _can_ I bear it!" She trembles violently as she stands beside him; the folds of her dress sweep across his feet, the faint, sweet perfume of the orange-flowers steals over his senses. He bows his burning forehead down upon her hands, and for a moment is silent too. "I _must_ go," whispers the girl desperately, at last. "Good-bye, Keith--darling Keith. For my sake, try and bear up now; and oh, promise me you won't carry out your awful threat; you won't go to the--bad." "I can't promise any such thing," he says, relapsing into gloom and anger once more. "You don't know what you've done to me. I never was particularly good, and if I tried to be, it was simply for your sake. Now my anchor is gone, and I am cut adrift. Whatever evil I do lies at your door, as I said before!" "You are cruel--cowardly to say that!" she cries quickly. "I have not been blameless, but I have not been false to you in my heart--that I know, and if you had only told me, only written----"