"I will tell you what I will do, Maurice," she said thoughtfully. "I will consent to let our engagement be in abeyance for the present; I will cease to write to you unless I have anything particular to say, and I will not expect you to write to me. If people question us, we will deny any engagement between us--we will say that we are each of us free--but on one condition only, that you will promise me most solemnly, on your honour as a gentleman, that should either of us be left any money--should there be, say, a clear thousand a year between us, within the next five years----" "My dear Helen, I am as likely to have a thousand a year as to be presented with the regalia." "Never mind. If it is unlikely, so much the worse--or the better, whichever you may like to call it. But if such a thing does happen, give me your word of honour that you will come to me at once--that, in fact, our engagement shall be renewed. If things are no better, our prospects no brighter, in five years from now--well, then, let us each be free to marry elsewhere." There was a moment or two of silence between them. Maurice bent forward in his chair, leaning his arms upon his knees, and staring moodily into the fire. He was weighing her proposition. It was something; but it was not enough. It virtually bound him to her for five years, for, of course, an engagement that is to be tacitly consented to between the principal contractors is an engagement still, though the whole world be in ignorance of it. But then it gave him a chance, and a very good chance too, of perfect liberty in five years' time. It was something, certainly; though, as he had wanted his freedom at once, it could hardly be said to be altogether satisfactory. Helen knelt bolt upright in front of him, watching his face. How passionately she desired to hear him indignantly repudiate the half-liberty she offered him! How ardently she desired that he should take her in his arms, and swear to her that he would never consent to her terms, no one but herself could know. It had been her last expedient to revive the old love, to rekindle the dead ashes of the smouldering fire. Surely, if there was but a spark of it left, it must leap up into life and vitality again at her words. But, as she watched him, her heart, that had beat so wildly, sank cold and colder within her. She felt that his heart was gone from her; she had cast her last die and lost. But, for all that, she was not minded to let him go free--her wild, ungoverned passion for him was too deeply rooted within her; since he would not be hers willingly, he should be hers by force. "Surely," she said, wistfully, "you cannot find my terms too hard to consent to--you who--who love me?" He turned to her quickly and took her hands, every feeling of gentleman-like honour, every spark of manly courtesy towards her, aroused by her gentle words. "Say no more, Helen--you are too good--too generous to me. It shall be as you say."