“I--love him--him?” she cried. “Oh no, no; he is not the man I loved. The moment he came before me with the look of a savage on his face and the words of a savage thirsting for blood on his lips, I knew that he was not the man I loved. The man whom I had promised to love--the man for whom I was waiting, was quite another one. The Claude Westwood who entered this room had, I perceived, nothing in common with the Claude Westwood who had parted from me in this same room, saying, 'I shall make a name that will be in some measure worthy of your acceptance.' Listen to me while I tell you that that very night, when I went to my room, I took the miniature of the man whom I had loved and trampled upon it. And yet--ah, I tried to force myself to believe that I was sorry. I tried to force myself to believe that I loved the man who had come to me telling me that his name was Claude Westwood. I knew in my heart that I did not love him. Ah, what he said to me was true. He said--a smile was on his face all the time--' Every seven years a man changes utterly: no particle of him remains to-day as it was seven years ago.' And then he went on to demonstrate, quite plausibly, quite convincingly, for indeed he convinced me at once, that it was ridiculous for a woman to hope that, after seven years, the same man whom she had once loved should return to her; it was physically impossible, he explained, and this system he termed, very aptly, 'Nature's Statute of Limitations.'” “My poor Agnes!” “Then it was I knew that, so far from being sorry that that man did not love me, I felt glad. I knew that there remained no particle of love for him in my heart when you told me that he loved Clare Tristram, for I felt no pang of jealousy. Poor girl--poor girl!” “Let us talk no more about him. Agnes, has my time come yet? I have been wondering for some days past if I should tell you--if I should tell you what I told you on that morning long ago. You know that it was true then; you know that it is true now.” “Not to-day--I implore of you not to ask me to say the words that you think will make you happy--the words which I know will make me happy.” “I will not ask you to say one word beyond that, my beloved.” He had caught her hand and was holding it in both his own, smiling. She shook her head. “Do not assume too much,” she cried. “I cannot be happy to-day--oh, it would be heartless for me to be happy while that girl is wretched!” “Wretched? It cannot be possible that he has turned away from her within a month?” said Sir Percival. “Seven years, not weeks, was the space of time named by him.” “It was impossible that anything but misery could come of his love for her,” said Agnes. “The misery has come. Poor child! I should be inhuman if I thought of my own happiness to-day while the waters have closed over her head.”