country--especially out west--it would be safe. We should see each other, Marise and I. And I'd ask no more than that. For a while I could live on the sight of her--and hope. When OEnone's little spark of life burns out, as it must before long, with the best of care possible, Marise at once divorces her dummy. He gives her technical cause, of course. That's part of the bargain I make with my million. No breath of scandal against Marise! And, a few months later, she and I are married. There's only this short road of red-hot ploughshares for us both to tread. Then, instead of marrying a pauper, such as I am now, and both of us battening on her bank account--she'd perhaps be forced to go back on the stage to keep the pot boiling--my darling girl finds herself the wife of a very rich man, one of the richest peers in Great Britain. For in addition to old Con's million pounds, I should have OEnone's private fortune. He has agreed to that, with her, in the event of her death, which he hopes may be long delayed by happiness, and which I know won't--can't possibly be.... There! I've finished at last! The only thing left is for me to tell you over again that my life depends on your decision. I believe I'll kill myself if the answer is 'No.'" CHAPTER IX SOMETHING OUT OF ANCIENT ROME The hot torrent of words ceased. There was silence in the gaily-tinted, flower-filled salon, save for the tick of an absurd Louis Seize clock on the mantel. Under the gilt wheel of Time a cupid balanced back and forth, in a Rhinestone swing--"Yes," "No," the seesaw motion seemed to say. The stillness was terrible to Severance. He did not get up from his knees. He did not release the women's waists from the girdle of his arms. His eyes were on the face of Marise. Never had he seen her so pale. "For God's sake, speak!--one of you," he stammered. Abruptly the girl pushed his arm away, and sprang to her feet. "You are wicked!" she cried. "Horrible! It can't be true that this has happened to me. It's a nightmare. I want to wake up!" Severance abandoned his prayerful position and faced her. He would have caught her hands, but she thrust him back with violence. "I thought you were a modern Englishman, like other Englishmen--like all other decent men I've known. But you're not," she panted. "You're something out of the Middle Ages. No! you're before that You're of Ancient Rome--the time of the Borgias. Or Beatrice Cenci." "Don't, don't, Marise, my child!" Mary joined soothing with command. "You'll make yourself ill. We must be calm. We must think." "Think?" the girl repeated. "What is there to think about? Surely you don't suggest that I should 'reflect'--that I should study whether to accept or not such a--bargain?"