"We met at a watering-place unknown to each other, people of the world, adventurers, if you will, and between us sprang up one of those flirtations which are so far removed from genuine affection that the two never exist together. We called it love--perhaps thought it so--for a brief time; for I confess to a sentiment regarding you which no ordinary person could have inspired." The woman lifted her eyes at his softened voice, and with an expression that must have gone to his soul; never in my life had I seen so much gratitude in a glance. "But this was not love!" The white hand dropped away from his arm; he grasped the other tighter, as if to impress his words more forcibly on her. "I never did love you, Mrs. Dennison. Such expressions as are admitted in society, without real meaning, I may have used, and you perhaps construed them into deeper significance than they possessed. I--" Mrs. Dennison lifted her two hands with impatient deprecation. "Enough, enough!" she said; "more words are useless; I comprehend you." "And hold me blameless, I trust?" "Blameless? Oh, yes!" There was bitter whiteness on her lips, and her eyes flashed fiercely. The sneer relieved him. There had been something of compassion, even of regret, in his voice till then; but the curl of her lips drove all such feeling away. "At least," he continued, promptly, "any blame that I might myself feel it just to assume, has been a thousand times overbalanced by your conduct, regarding one of the brightest and sweetest creatures that the sun ever shone upon." The bitter sneer spread all over the woman's face, leaving it cold and white. "You speak of Miss Lee?" The voice in which she uttered these words was fearfully concentrated, and her agitation kept her still as a serpent before it springs. "Yes, madam, I speak of the lady who once, at least, received me kindly; but who, yielding to your machinations, has just sent me from her presence forever, a rejected, desperate man, for I love her better than my own soul!" A faint sound, sharp as a cry, deep as a grave, broke from the woman. Lawrence did not heed it, but turned away and left her, seemingly forgetful that it was a farewell. She followed him with her great, wild eyes, struggled with herself, and evidently strove to cry out; but her locked features refused to stir. The cold lips took a blue tinge, but gave no sound. She stood like Lot's wife, with all the vitality stricken from her limbs, listening to his footsteps as they died among the leaves. Then she uttered a low cry, sprang forward to follow him, and fell prone across the footpath. CHAPTER LIX. A HEART-STORM ABATING.