Maurice was scarcely awake next morning when a little note was brought him from his cousin. It was only two or three lines written late the night before, when she found that he did not come to their common sitting-room. It said, "What has come to all the world? I go to Mrs. Costello's, and find Lucia with a violent headache, and with her ideas apparently much confused. I come home, and hear and see nothing of you till night, when I am told you have gone to your room without stopping for a moment to satisfy my curiosity. You will be at breakfast? I want to see you. Louisa."

He twisted the dainty sheet of paper round his fingers, while he slowly recalled the events of yesterday up to the point of his last decision, to see Lucia to-day and tell her how grievously he had been disappointed, and what she had been and still was to him. But then came the natural consequence of this; he would still, afterwards, have to meet both Lucia and her mother constantly for some days, and to behave to them just as usual. It had seemed to him already that to do so would be difficult; now he began to think it impossible. What to do then? To keep silence now and always, or to speak and then go away home, where he was needed? He must lose her sweet company—sweet to him still. He must lose it, and what matter whether a few days sooner or later? It was better to see her once again, and go.

He dressed hastily and went to the breakfast-room. Sir John always took an early stroll, and might not yet be back; was not, in fact, and Lady Dighton was there alone. Maurice only saw so much before he began to speak.

"I am sorry," he said, "that you expected me last night. I came in very tired, and went straight to bed."

"We waited dinner some time for you," Lady Dighton answered, "and you know how punctual Sir John is; but never mind now. You are looking ill, Maurice."

"I am quite well. I am afraid I must go back to England though. Should you think me a barbarian if I started to-night and left you behind?"

"Is something wrong? Your father is well?"

"Quite well. But—I had letters last night. I am not certain that I must go, only I thought you ought to know at once that I might have to do so."

"And Lucia? What will she say?"

"I don't know. You will not tell her, please?"

"Certainly not. I do not like carrying bad news. But you will see her no doubt before I do."

Maurice hesitated a moment, and then made boldly a request which had been in his mind.

"I want to see her. I should like to see her this morning if I could. Will you help me?"

"You don't generally require help for that. But I suppose the fact is, you want to see her alone?"

"Exactly."

"I own I fancied you had settled your affairs yesterday; however, I can help you, I think. Mrs. Costello half promised to go out with me some morning. I will go and try to carry her off to-day."

"You are always kind, Louisa. What should I do without you?"

"Ah! that is very pretty just now. By-and-by we shall see how much value you have for me."

"Yes, you shall see."

"But seriously, Maurice, you look wretched. One would say you had not slept for a week."

"On the contrary, I slept later than usual to-day. It is that, I suppose, which makes me look dull. Here is Sir John. What time will your drive be?"

They fixed the time, and as soon as breakfast was finished, Maurice went back to his room. He tore up the letters he had written last night, and wrote others announcing his return home, took them to the post himself, and then walked about in sheer inability to keep still, until it should be time to go to Mrs. Costello's.

He made a tolerably long round, choosing always the noisiest, busiest streets, and came back to the hotel just as his cousin drove away. He followed her carriage, and passed it as it stood at Mrs. Costello's door, went on to the barrier, and coming back, found that it had disappeared. Now, therefore, probably Mrs. Costello was gone, and now, if ever, was his opportunity.

When Claudine opened the door for "ce beau monsieur" she was aghast. He was positively "beau" no longer. He was pale and heavy-eyed. He actually seemed to have grown thinner. Even his frank smile and word of wonderfully English French had failed him. She went back to her kitchen in consternation. "Ce pauvre monsieur! C'est affreux! Something is wrong with him and mademoiselle. Ma foi, if I had such a lover!"

Mrs. Costello was gone, and Lucia sat alone, and very dreary. At Maurice's entrance she rose quickly; but kept her eyes averted so that his paleness did not strike her as it had done others. She coloured vividly, with a mixture of shame, pride, and gladness, at his coming; but she only said "Good morning," in a low undemonstrative tone, and they both sat down in silence.

She had some little piece of work in her hands, but she did not go on with it, only kept twisting the thread round her fingers, and wondering what he would say; whether now that they were alone, he would refer to Percy; whether he would use his old privilege of blaming her when she did wrong.

But she was not struck down helplessly now as she had been at first yesterday. She had begun to feel the stings of mortified pride, and was ready to turn fiercely upon anybody who should give her provocation.

Maurice spoke first.

"I came to say good-bye," he said. "I am obliged to go home."

His words sounded curt and dry, just because he had such difficulty in making them steady at all, and she looked at him in her surprise, for the first time.

"Not to-day? Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter there. I told you I had business in Paris. Well, it is finished."

"And you are going to-day?"

"I start this evening."

"We shall miss you."

She felt a strange constraint creeping over her. She could not even express naturally her sorrow and disappointment at his going. She began again to have the feeling of being guilty, and accused, and being eager to defend herself without knowing how.

"I shall not be far off, and you will know where to find me. When you want me, for whatever reason, you have only to write and I will come."

"But I always want you," she answered half pettishly. "You said you would stay at least till Lady Dighton went away."

Maurice got up and walked to the window.

"I miscalculated," he said, coming back. "We all do sometimes, I suppose."

He stood in a favourite attitude, leaning with one arm on the mantelpiece, and watching Lucia with a mixture of love and bitterness. His last words seemed to her a taunt, and tears of anger filled her eyes. She remained silent, and he had to speak again.

"Do you care to know," he asked her, "what my business in Paris was?"

"If you wish to tell me!"

"Lucia! do not I wish to tell you everything? Could I have kept a secret which was always in my thoughts from you, do you suppose?"

Lucia half rose. "That is not generous," she said. "You have no right to speak so. Yesterday you were kinder."

"Yesterday I only thought of you. To-day I have had time to think a little of myself."

"No doubt you are right. Only you ought not to have come to Paris—at least not to us. It would have been better if everything that belonged to our old life had been lost together."

"Which means that you are quite willing to lose me?"

"Willing? No. But I can understand that it is better."

"Can you? You talk of losses—listen to what I have lost. You know what my life in Canada used to be—plenty of work, and not much money—but still reasonable hope of prosperity by-and-by. I used to make plans then, of having a home of my own, and I was not content that it should be just like other people's. I thought it would be the brightest, warmest, happiest home in the world. I knew it would be if I only got what I wanted. A man can't have a home without a wife. I knew where my wife was to be found if ever I had one at all; and she was so sweet and good, and let me see so frankly that she liked and trusted me, that I—it was all vanity, Lucia—I never much doubted that in time I should make her love me."

He stopped. Lucia was looking at him eagerly. Even yet she did not quite understand. "Go on," she said.

"There was my mistake," he continued. "I might have won her then perhaps. But there came a visitor to the neighbourhood. He was handsome—at least women said so—and could make himself agreeable. He knew all about what people call the world—he had plenty of talk about all sorts of small topics. He was a very fine gentleman in fact, and you know what I was. Well, naturally enough, he wanted amusement. He looked about for it, I suppose, and was attracted by what had attracted me—no—I do not believe even that, for I loved her goodness, and he must have been caught by her beauty. At any rate, I had to go away and leave him near her; and I heard after a while that he was gone. That was late in autumn. Very early this year, I heard of his marriage; and I thought she had been unharmed.

"My grandfather died, and I was rich enough to make that home I dreamed of, fit for its mistress. I went to find her. I found her, as I thought, lovelier and sweeter than ever. She seemed to feel more than ever that I was of some use and value to her—she made me believe that, next to her mother, she loved me best in the world. I delayed asking her to be my wife, only because our days were so happy, that I feared to disturb them—but I thought she was certainly mine.

"Then, all at once, this man, this Percy, who had left her in her trouble—who was married—made his appearance, and I knew that she had loved him all the while—that she had never cared for me!"

Long ago, Lucia had clasped her hands before her face. She sat trembling and cowering before this accuser. Involuntarily she said in her heart, "This is the true love. I have been blind—blind!"—but her words were frozen up—she bent forward as if under a blow—but made no sound.

Maurice himself remained silent for a few minutes. He had spoken under a strong impulse of excitement, he hardly knew how. He, too, leaned his head upon his hand, but from under it he still watched the trembling girlish figure, which was the dearest thing in the world to him. Presently he saw a tear steal out from between her small fingers and fall glittering upon the black dress she wore. He moved uneasily—he had been surely very harsh. Another tear fell—tear of bitter humiliation, good for her to shed—then a third. He could not endure it. She might not love him, but that was no reason why he should turn her sisterly affection into hate. So he went to her, and laid his hand softly on one of hers, trying to draw it away. She let him do so after a moment, but her face remained just as much hidden.

"Lucia!" he said, full of distress, "Lucia! speak to me."

She could not—all her efforts were needed to keep down the painful swelling in her throat. She was fighting for power to say humbly, "Try to forgive me," but he did not give her time.

"If you would only say good-bye—only one word;" and he almost knelt beside her, raising her cold hand half-unconsciously to his lips.

She drew it away suddenly. His tenderness was the worst reproach of all. Her sobs burst out without control. She rose. "No; rather forgive me," she tried to say, but her voice was choked and hardly audible; and she fled from the room, hurrying into her own, and fell down on the floor at the bedside.

Maurice waited for awhile, thinking she might come back. He sat down near where her chair stood, and leaning both elbows on the table, tried to calm himself after the terrible excitement. Lucia's tears and her silence had utterly disarmed him—he called himself a brute for having distressed her. But as time went on, and she did not return, he remembered that he could not just then meet Mrs. Costello, and he got up and began to walk about the room uneasily. Still, time went on, and there was no sign of Lucia. He wished to knock at her door, but dared not. He must go then without one good-bye!

"That is my own fault at any rate," he said, and went away softly, without even seeing Claudine.

But, as it happened, Mrs. Costello was long coming back. Lady Dighton had confided to her Maurice's wish to see Lucia alone, and the two ladies, very happy and confidential over their schemes, both supposing that nothing but good could come of a long talk between the young people—prolonged their absence till more than two hours after Maurice had returned to the hotel. So that his preparations for leaving Paris were almost completed by the time that Lucia, hearing her mother's entrance, came out of the solitude where she had hidden her tears and her repentance.