But Jill only buried her face in her hands and sobbed on. She would have given anything to have preserved her composure throughout this interview; but once having broken down there was no stemming the torrent; the flood must have its way, and a regular deluge it proved. St. John watched her uneasily for a while, then unable to stand it longer he went up to her again, and putting his arm around her neck, tried to draw her hands away. In a moment she was on her feet facing him, grief changed to indignation, scorn and anger in her eyes, while the tear drops glistened still upon her flushed cheeks, and trembled wet and sparkling on her lashes. "Don't come near me," she panted; "your touch is hateful to me--keep away, do you hear?" "Don't worry yourself, my dear girl," he retorted a trifle impatiently it must be confessed. "I have no wish to approach any nearer; indeed I'd rather remain where I am. If you would only tell me what it is all about, instead of flying off at a tangent we might arrive at a better understanding. Have I done anything to forfeit your regard?" "Yes," she answered petulantly, "you know you have." "Should I ask for information which I had already?" he questioned coolly. "Information moreover which is presumably hardly creditable to myself. What is the something, please?" Jill looked at him coldly, but he bore her scrutiny well. He was grave, but he certainly did not appear apprehensive, nor was he in the least embarrassed or perturbed. "What is the something?" he repeated. "I think I have a right to know." But Jill seemed to find a difficulty in answering, or a disinclination to do so; for she drew herself up and remained silent, an angry spot of colour in either cheek. St. John tapped the floor impatiently with his boot. "Come, come," he cried, "this is childish to accuse a fellow of some possibly imaginary wrong, and not give him the chance of refuting it. What heinous offence do you fancy me guilty of? Robbing a bank? I haven't I assure you." He was turning her doubts of him to ridicule which only angered her the more. There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes and his moustache twitched ever so slightly. "What! sceptical of that even?" he continued ironically. "So it's my honesty that's called into question, eh?" "Yes," Jill flashed back with a fierceness born of wounded pride, "your honesty, Mr St. John. Is it honest of you to come and make love to me? No, you know it is not, it is dishonourable, despicable--" "Stop a bit," he interrupted with a quietness and control which surprised himself; "don't let us lose ourselves in a labyrinth of adjectives, and so get away from the main subject altogether. Why is it dishonourable for me to make love to you? For, though you will insist to the contrary, I am absolutely ignorant of any prohibitive reason."