“I have not consented.” “Yes you have, by your silence.” “I was deliberating.” “I asked you twice, and you did not refuse; surely that means consent.” “I do not say so,” said Langhetti, earnestly. “But you will do so.” “Do not be so certain.” “Yes, I will be certain; and if you do not tell me you will very deeply disappoint me.” “In telling you I could only give you sorrow.” “Sorrow or joy, whatever it is, I can bear it so long as I know this. You will not suppose that I am actuated by simple feminine curiosity. You know me better. This secret is one which subjects me to the tortures of suspense, and I am anxious to have them removed.” “The removal will be worse than the suspense.” “That is impossible.” “You would not say so if you knew what it was.” “Tell me, then.” “That is what I fear to do.” “Do you fear for me, or for some other person?” “Only for you.” “Do not fear for me, then, I beseech you; for it is not only my desire, but my prayer, that I may know this.” Langhetti seemed to be in deep perplexity. Whatever this secret was with which he was so troubled he seemed afraid to tell it to Beatrice, either from fear that it might not be any thing in itself or result in any thing, or, as seemed more probable, lest it might too greatly affect her. This last was the motive which appeared to influence him most strongly. In either case, the secret of which he spoke must have been one of a highly important character, affecting most deeply the life and fortunes of Beatrice herself. She had formed her own ideas and her own expectations about it, and this made her all the more urgent, and even peremptory, in her demand. In fact, things had come to such a point that Langhetti found himself no longer able to refuse, and now only sought how to postpone his divulgence of his secret. Yet even this Beatrice combated, and would listen to no later postponement than the morrow. At length, after long resistance to her demand, Langhetti assented, and promised on the morrow to tell her what it was that he had meant by his secret. For, as she gathered from his conversation, it was something that he had first discovered in Hong Kong, and had never since forgotten, but had tried to make it certain. His efforts had thus far been useless, and he did not wish to tell her till he could bring proof. That proof, unfortunately, he was not able to find, and he could only tell his conjectures. It was for these, then, that Beatrice waited in anxious expectation. CHAPTER XXXIX. THE CAB. That evening Beatrice’s performance had been greeted with louder applause than usual, and, what was more gratifying to one like her, the effective passages had been listened to with a stillness which spoke more loudly than the loudest applause of the deep interest of the audience. Langhetti had almost always driven home with her, but on this occasion he had excused himself on account of some business in the theatre which required his attention.