"I think you have spoilt my whole life," he says. "Thought drives me mad, or to distractions that are ruinous to body and soul. I feel as if I cannot bear to live as I do. Why," he continues passionately, "do you know, I never stand alone on a moonlight night, or look at any beauty in nature or in art, or see the stars shining in the sky, but I long and long till longing drives me desperate for just your presence beside me, your voice on my ear. I never hear a strain of music that touches my soul but I long to turn to you for answering sympathy. I am young and rich, and have life and the world before me, and yet there is no single thing I can enjoy with any real heart-whole enjoyment now. There is always the one want that drives me desperate--the one craving for _you_!" Lauraine listens to the torrent of his words, and all her soul seems rent and shaken. In the old days, the old boy and girl days together, she had never loved Keith Athelstone as she loves him now, and that thought terrifies her with a sense of her own wickedness and an awful dread of the ordeal before her. "I am sorry--so sorry," she says tremulously. "I did hope you had got over it--had forgotten-- "Forgotten!" interrupts Keith bitterly. "No; I leave that for women." "Do you think I forgot?" she cries, flashing round upon him with sudden, tempestuous anger. "I did not. My marriage was in a way forced upon me by my mother. You knew it, then. Why do you say such things to me now? Am I not wretched enough?" Her voice breaks into a faint sob, and all his heart melts at a sign of grief from her. "Are you wretched?" he says softly. "Oh, my poor darling, not half so wretched as I. When you gave yourself away from me you little knew what you did. I think I have never known one happy moment since--nor ever shall again." "Why do you tell me this? Is it any use?" falters Lauraine. "I don't know," he says wearily. "I thought, perhaps, you might pity me--be a little sorry for your work." "Oh, don't talk like that," she entreats, lifting two soft tear-wet eyes to the young, haggard, reproachful face before her. "Pity you--do you think I am a stone; that I have no feeling?" "Then you _are_ sorry--a little sorry," he says, coming nearer. "Well, that is some consolation. But I can't live on that. I want something more. I don't care how badly you think of me, Lauraine. After to-night I suppose I have just done for myself, but I _will_ hear you say what your eyes told me a little while ago--say you love me." His arms are wrapped around the slender, trembling figure--he holds her closely to his breast and looks down, down, into her eyes with all the fire and passion of his impulsive nature burning in his own. As she meets that look the blood flies like flame through her veins. She feels escape is impossible. "Don't ask me," she whispers faintly. His look never changes. "Answer me," he says.