The silence was intense and oppressive; time dragged painfully; every minute was fraught with an entire round of mingled emotions. Fear and trembling apprehension alternated with eager impatience; stem determination, coupled with either forced or spontaneous hope, would be followed by a crushing sense of foregone failure and lack of self-confidence. After a while this ceaseless ebullition of feeling brought on actual physical fatigue, and Evarne leant back in her chair with a growing sense of exhaustion.

Suddenly a sharp, loud knock broke the silence. Although she had been expecting this—listening and waiting for it—the sound came finally as a blow dealt her highly-strung nerves. She gave a painful start, a gasp, and felt the hot blood surge to her head. She sprang to her feet at once, but then stood motionless. Now that Morris Kenyon was actually upon her doorstep, every moment that kept him from crossing the threshold seemed a priceless respite.

She believed that she remained as if spellbound for many minutes, but really only a brief time passed before she aroused herself and went to the front door. With apparent indifference she flung it half open, and at once returned to sink into her favourite big arm-chair, leaving Morris to enter, close the front door, and conduct himself along the hall.

The light streaming from out the one room into the darkness served as a guide, and in a minute she heard his advancing footsteps come to a standstill. She neither spoke nor looked up, but remained impassive, her eyes fixed on the beloved ring that sparkled upon her third finger.

Morris seemed well content to stand for a while in the doorway, surveying her with a keen scrutiny. Then he studied the surroundings, rapidly but with considerable interest; glanced over his shoulder into the dense blackness that enveloped the remainder of the house; listened a moment to the heavy stillness that held sway; then entered the room and closed the door, pausing calmly to admire the crimson velvet portiÈre, on which was some of Evarne's exquisite embroidery. After laying down his stick and hat on a little table and leisurely removing his gloves, he drew up a chair close to his hostess, sat down, and waited silently until she should choose to speak.

He was in evening dress, and though in the abstract there was nothing to be surprised at in this sartorial detail, Evarne found it inexplicably disconcerting. Without raising her eyelids she contrived to study him through her long lashes. He was indeed dignified and imposing; he had lost none of his good looks; but the lines of his mouth seemed even sterner, more inflexible than of yore. Past memories rushed upon her mind. The leading events and many apparently trifling details that had gone towards making up nigh three years of her life passed now in rapid progression before her mind's eye.

Verily she had loved this man at one time—she shrank with self-loathing from recalling how devotedly. He it was had been the cause of all those wild storms of emotion that from time to time had convulsed her whole nature in the throes either of ecstasy or of anguish. Quite apart from the fact that he came at this crisis as the arbiter of her future fate, it would have been impossible for her to once more see him—to feel his near presence—and remain entirely unmoved.

Maybe some similar reflections passed through Morris's mind. At all events, when ultimately he broke the silence, his words referred, not directly to the business on hand, but to the days that were gone.

"The presiding spirits at our exciting and interesting farewell, five—six now, isn't it?—six years ago, were not exactly those of Peace and Harmony, were they? Where did the venturesome little birdie flutter when it left its gilded cage, and what did it do?"

Considering the gravity of the circumstances to which he was alluding, this light mode of address aroused all Evarne's indignation. But she carefully concealed every trace of resentment. So far her behaviour towards him that evening had been decidedly cavalier; but it was undoubtedly necessary, if she was to win her way with him, that he should be deferred to—conciliated, rendered as well disposed towards her as was possible. Thus she gently answered his question by a brief though absolutely frank recital of her short stage experience, her miseries at needlework and subsequent illness, and her ultimate success as an artist's model. She kept very much to generalities in this account of how the years had passed with her, and avoided the least mention of Geoffrey.

Morris listened with evident interest, and after a period of silence had shown that she did not intend to proceed to further details, he said carelessly—

"You've escaped monotony in life, at all events. But, indeed, some new experiences have come the way of nearly everybody you once knew. Tony Belmont married, and is now a respectable, sober citizen with two children. Lucinda is still in Paris, assailing hearts and banking accounts with undiminished success—not mine, though! Little—whatever was her name? Oh, Feronnier! A man who once knew her told me he had seen her recently haunting the back streets with a face pitted by small-pox! I, to my own vast surprise, find myself, nolens volens, an earl! My lady-wife, the countess, grows more tenacious of life year by year. I should say also she has become more disagreeable and unpleasant daily, if she hasn't already arrived at an age when ugliness and unpleasantness in the fair sex are such that there's no distinguishing of degrees. Then Geoffrey Danvers finds himself my heir, with all the resultant privileges and drawbacks—amongst the latter being the dire necessity of marrying not merely to please his own fancy, but with a certain regard to the demands of his position."

At length this preamble had been manoeuvred round to the main point.

Evarne leaned slightly forward in her anxiety, as she demanded, without any circumlocution—

"Morris, do you wish to prevent your cousin making me his wife?"

Unconsciously she held her breath while awaiting his reply.

"Surely such a question needs no answer?" he said, a certain sternness stealing into his voice. "My chief wonder is that you ever dared to think of marrying my cousin."

Explanation seemed but a waste of time, yet she found herself saying in a somewhat tremulous voice—

"But I didn't know. They all speak of you by your title, and I did not dream of connecting that name with you. I never saw anything about the matter in the papers. Five years ago I was doing needlework; I read nothing and knew of nothing that happened outside my own four walls."

"Um! I understand," rejoined Morris reflectively. Then with a sudden change of tone he continued—

"Now, see here. You must realise that, as things have turned out, this marriage is not to be thought of. While no one who has ever known you, ma chÉrie, can possibly connect Evarne and common sense together in their minds, you are experienced enough by now, I dare say, to be willing to admit that life has the drawback of being a serious affair, and not a pretty romance. Therefore you will surely see that the wisest thing you can do is to make the best of a bad job, to accept the inevitable, and—shall we say—travel a while? Now, travelling costs money, and it is only fair that I, who am responsible for the necessity, should pay the piper. There's a cheque in my pocket-book, Evarne. If you will tell me what you think would be sufficient to—to settle up things comfortably—I will fill it in right away. Now, that's merely a business offer, to avoid trouble and annoyance for us both," he added hastily, noticing her changed expression. "I don't need any thanks, but at the same time I don't intend to put up with any of the abuse to which you treated me the last time I proposed concerning myself about your future. Now, what sum will satisfy you? In any case you must realise that your marriage with Geoffrey is absolutely impossible."

Evarne lay back in the big chair and surveyed the speaker leisurely and critically. She was at a loss to decide on the best manner of refusing even to consider this suggestion. One variety of response after another flitted through her mind. She dared venture on none of them. She dreaded the effect her defiance would have upon him, declare it gently and meekly as she might. Finally words came, prompted by her protracted scrutiny of his cold, resolute face. A quivering sigh escaped her, and speaking half to herself she murmured—

"How much I have suffered at your hands!"

For a moment his sympathy was aroused. He drew his chair a trifle closer, and laid his hand upon her knee.

"Evarne, why in Heaven's name do such things happen? On my honour, I'm heartily grieved and worried over this imbroglio."

With hope flashing into her eyes she suddenly sat erect and caught at his arm.

"Then leave everything alone—dear, dear."

Her mellifluous voice was low and coaxing. Before he could reply she went on—

"Let all the cruel, hateful past be forgotten. I can—I will—be a good wife to Geoff. You should never, never have the least reason to regret having permitted our marriage—oh, I'm certain! We are so strangely suited to one another—our natures are thoroughly harmonious. Oh, Morris, Morris, you don't know how much he cares for me, and I—I love him with my whole heart, with all my strength, with all that makes my life. We should be so happy together—do let it be."

Morris raised his hands, as if to request the opportunity of replying. But Evarne did not, perhaps could not, cease one instant in her impassioned appeal.

"You know better than almost anyone that I am not light-natured, or really indifferent to right and wrong. You did care for me once—I know it—and there was a time when I would have turned to you with perfect confidence in any trouble. By the memory of those days, I implore you not to drag me again into the lowest depths of misery. And Geoff too—pity him, and spare him. Let him live his own life, and love in peace, and marry as his heart dictates. You can't always go by hard and fast laws. I am sure, I am convinced, that the greatest good—that nothing but good—could ever come from your keeping silence upon the wrongs, the faults, the deceptions and miseries that have gone by. Only fresh harm, more widespread evil, immediate and life-long, irreparable and unnecessary—oh think, so unnecessary—can arise from your determination to oppose a marriage that would be—be.... Oh, Morris, we do love each other so much!"

She flung her whole soul into this plea. As so often happens, the actual words were by far the weakest part of the appeal. It was her voice, low-pitched in its earnest entreaty, and at times quivering and uncertain, that betrayed most clearly the depth of her agitation—the vital force of tortured feelings. And as these tremulous tones died away, her entire personality continued to give the impression that her very life hung upon Morris's response. She leaned towards him; her fair face, so expressive, so appealing, was very close to his. Those eager brown eyes, now so full of passionate persuasion, seemed to burn to his innermost consciousness. Not for one moment could Morris doubt the reality of her deep affection for the man she desired to marry.

He admired total abandonment of any sort. Something of her old charm fell upon him, and for a passing moment he came near to envying his young cousin the possession of this all-dominating love that he himself had once so lightly flung aside and disregarded. Thus, besides the need of resisting the encroachment of sentiment upon his resolve, he felt a touch of jealousy—a decided though unacknowledged displeasure at finding the heart that was once his footstool now so entirely emancipated from his service. It was this sense of personal grievance that caused him to answer her with a dash of that brutality that came so easily to his lips.

"The saints protect me from the responsibility of disarranging any ideal union, but the one you suggest is in every way about as unsuitable as could possibly be imagined. Doubtless you are absolutely devoted to Geoffrey—thousands of girls could easily adore the heir to an earldom. But forget your charming romantic feelings and try to look at the matter from an impersonal point of view. You are an artist's model. It may be the most refined and elevating profession imaginable, but—well—we commonplace people who belong neither to the race of poets nor artists find it rather difficult to reconcile—well—you comprehend? I won't press that point."

"That is nothing at all to Geoff!" breathed Evarne.

"Then, if I understood rightly, you came very near to including utter starvation in that intensely interesting recital of your experiences," he went on. "Of course, that's very sad—quite touching, in fact. But now, do you suppose that a few years ahead we want troops of American tourists trotting out to the slums to visit the garret wherein the Countess of Winborough nearly starved? I can assure you that, although I shan't be here, I object very strongly to the possibility. Oh, Geoffrey thinks he wouldn't mind, I dare say. I only wonder he hasn't already painted a picture of you in rags and tatters gazing into a cupboard like old Mother Hubbard and labelled it 'Suffering Virtue.' That's his belief about you, isn't it?"

Evarne felt her whole body tingling with hot indignation. She rose impetuously from the arm-chair, and walked rapidly to the farther end of the room. Such was the overwhelming hatred of this man that awoke again with renewed power within her breast, that his near presence was not to be endured.

"And isn't it true?" she demanded, speaking quickly and with impassioned emphasis. "Is not the very phrase that you are mean and base enough to fling at me in derision nothing more nor less than Heaven's truth? Is it not entirely because I did indeed prefer my own self-respect to ill-gotten money that there is a showplace in London such as you describe? That squalid room, and the cruel ordeals I underwent within its walls, are the very witnesses that testify to my claim to be held a good woman and a fit wife for any man. Not a day passed without my enduring more than you can ever realise. I was entirely without hope for the future, yet never once—never once, I tell you—did I regret the choice I had made.

"That grinding poverty was no shame to me," she went on, "but a glory; and no one knows that better than you—you, Morris Kenyon! And I would go back to it—live and die in it—rather than lose my own consciousness of virtue. You despicable coward! How dare you come here and taunt me with humiliations for which you alone are responsible? Everything that is degrading and wretched in my life has been brought into it by you. You indeed did your best to turn me into a woman whom a man well might fear to entrust with his name and with his honour, but that garret cries out to you and to all the world the story of your failure. It is infamous—vile—to bring forward such an acceptance of poverty as a reason for opposing your cousin's choice of me as his wife. It is infamous, and you know it."

She paused, breathing hard, still struggling with a sense of outrage. Her words had not been devoid of a certain sting, and once or twice Morris had inwardly winced beneath the onslaught. But circumstances placed every advantage—every weapon of lasting keenness—into his hands. Thus it was with unruffled complacency that he declared—

"My dear Evarne, could you not contrive to conquer this tendency to wax melodramatic? You know I dislike it, and that it is always ineffective."

He waited a minute, half expecting her to answer. But obedient to his expressed will Evarne succeeded in stifling all retorts, and remained silent. Looking at her narrowly, he could see signs of the effort she made over herself, and smiled a little before he continued—

"You force me to speak more plainly than I had hoped would be necessary. Surely you must know that I do not really need to adduce any exterior or subsequent details of your career in support of my very natural objection to this marriage. The one fact of your having been my mistress is alone all-sufficient. Understand that, please! You calmly ask me to allow Geoffrey to walk blindly into the trap you have set for him, and hurl insults at my head when I refuse! I should like to know what you expected? Did you really believe I should become a party to this deceit?"

But again he received no answer. Evarne simply looked at him with eyes that had grown somewhat dilated.

"I know he is absolutely without any suspicion," Morris went on, "for only yesterday the poor fool spoke of you in a strain that almost caused me to laugh in his face."

It needed such words, uttered in tones of such supreme contempt, to bring home to Evarne the way in which others must view the position in which she had placed Geoffrey. The knowledge assailed her cruelly. A physical pain, keen as a knife, shot through her forehead from one temple to the other. Crossing to the sofa, she sat down, twisted her hands tightly together, shut her eyes, and waited while the sharp pang gradually passed away.

Without turning right round, Morris was no longer able to see her. Accordingly, he got up and sank into the arm-chair she had vacated. But a minute later Evarne was on her knees by his side. The new horror that his last words had aroused, goaded her into making yet another effort at persuasion. Leaning against the soft, wide arm of the chair, she cried somewhat wildly—

"No, I haven't told him, because somehow the occasion never seemed to come until he loved me so much that I couldn't endure to speak the cruel truth. And you mustn't tell him now, Morris—oh, you mustn't! If only you will keep silent, neither he nor anybody else will ever know."

"So you flatter yourself, but these things always leak out."

"This wouldn't—how could it? We were abroad practically all the time—no one here knows. Besides, nobody at all can be really certain. There was always the veil of a plausible explanation of our being together. You didn't pick me up from nowhere. My father left me in your charge—everyone at Heatherington knew that. I worked steadily at Art all the time. There is scarcely the remotest possibility of anyone ever trying to make mischief; but if they did, then you and I together could absolutely defy them. We could, couldn't we? Morris, I beg of you—I implore your mercy—keep my secret. It can be done, and I am sure——"

But Morris interposed.

"It is not a bit of use continuing, my dear. Such a proceeding on my part would be most dishonourable towards my cousin."

"It would be the truest kindness to him. And have I no claims upon your honour? Will it allow you to betray me without scruple? Do you owe me no consideration whatsoever?"

"You view everything in a totally false light, Evarne. You don't seem to understand the difference——"

"Of course I know Geoff is infinitely more important than I am; but it is for his sake—that's what you won't see and believe. But——"

"Now, ma chÉrie, it's no use arguing. There is really nothing more to be said on the matter, so don't let the morning milkman find us still wasting breath. It is absolutely impossible that I can stand by and watch my cousin run blindly into a marriage with—well—with you! I think you really owe me some thanks for not enlightening him immediately. The fact is, I've always been ridiculously yielding and considerate where you are concerned, and the thought flashed across me yesterday that you might prefer to choose your own method of breaking with him. Now, what about—about that cheque, little girl? There's no reason why you shouldn't make an excellent marriage yet. The world is wide. They say American men make good husbands, and I will give you my blessing in anticipation."

Evarne remained silently musing for several minutes. Morris augured well from this, and did not interrupt her train of thought. At length she asked, in tones not devoid of a slight tinge of bitterness—

"And am I expected to thank you for all your kindly consideration?"

He merely shrugged his shoulders.

Somewhat to his surprise she answered quietly—

"Very well. I do thank you for keeping my secret so long, and for your offer of money, which I can well believe you mean simply as a kindness."

"Ah! And you decide...? What are you going to do now?"

"I am going to marry Geoffrey Danvers."

"Evarne!"

Morris was decidedly taken aback by this calm yet resolute response. Evarne rose from her knees, and sitting down continued—

"Yes, I am going to become his wife, and you shall never persuade me into telling him what I know well must cause him such profound sorrow. Not that it would make any lasting perceptible difference if you did betray me. You have no idea—for you can have no comprehension—of how deeply he and I love. I don't really think it lies within your power to realise the depth—such—such sincerity of affection. I am perfectly convinced that he would remain true to me, despite a far worse tale than you could tell."

"You don't really credit that romance. This attempt to marry him with a lie upon your lips proves you to be afraid of the effects of the truth."

"You're partly right, I admit; but I do not fear that Geoff would cease to care for me. Love is not killed so easily—don't think it."

"I know differently."

"You know absolutely nothing at all about love! Nothing!"

"Well, I certainly cannot prophesy upon the delicate topic of my cousin's affections with anything approaching your delightful assurance. Probably he would suggest that he should occupy the same position towards you that I did once, but I'm quite convinced——"

"Heaven save me from ever hearing such a proposition from Geoff's lips. But I know he never would."

"As I was about to say, I am perfectly convinced that he would never marry you—would never wish to! Good gracious! what do you take him for?"

Evarne gave a little cry.

"And then—and then—what then? Think of the struggle—the bitter anguish. Morris, Morris, do realise the cruel blow it would be to him. Oh, it must be warded off! I cannot even think of it with anything like calmness."

And indeed, even as she spoke, the growing pallor upon her cheeks supported her assertion. She rose from her chair.

"I will not have this evil deed of so-called friendship done to him. Do you hear? You are not to tell him. If you do, I shall deny it utterly. Do you hear?"

"I'm afraid the loudest shouting must prove as impotent as the most persuasive of tones to drown the voice of my conscience in this matter," declared Morris, looking unmistakably self-righteous. Disregarding the scornful little laugh with which this sentiment was received, he went on—

"Really, Evarne, your morals are decidedly eccentric. But you require plain speaking, don't you? Well, then, they are absolutely infamous. Everything you say only serves to confirm my original determination."

Both his voice and his look carried conviction. Waves of wild grief, of hopeless, crushing despair, swept over Evarne's spirit, followed by the most intense hatred and bitter indignation. Her caution demolished by a sense of utter failure, she placed no restriction upon the expression of her deep-rooted resentment against this man who had ever been her evil genius. She stood close to him, one hand spasmodically gripping the back of the chair from which she had arisen, while her eyes, always brilliant, now fairly blazed with anger and enmity.

"I shouldn't deny it—no, indeed. But from my lips he should learn the whole truth—the entire shameful story. He should know how my father on his very deathbed gave me—still a child—into the keeping of his false friend. Surely it will be easy to realise that, when in my hour of loss and loneliness you came professedly to help and comfort me, I unhesitatingly entrusted myself and the guidance of my life into your hands. Was I blameworthy so far? But oh, what a cruel fate for any girl!"

"You had a very good time, my dear," interposed Morris testily.

"A good time!" she echoed wildly. "Oh! You know, and Geoffrey shall know how, from the very first, you systematically tricked and deceived me, lying to me about your wife, and taking me alone with you to Naples. Will it seem strange to him to learn that in time you were able to make me care for you as blindly as I trusted you? I shall tell him how you worked upon all that was best in my nature—how you appealed to my sympathy—how you played upon my gratitude, my affection, to gain your own vile ends. I shall tell him all your infamy. You cast me among absolutely depraved women—meaning me to become as they were; for finally you bade me sell myself for money! Yes, you would have deliberately started me on that path which is held to be the most degrading—the most cruel—of all the tracks that lead hellwards. That's what you did for me, an innocent child; and that's what you would have done, could you have had your entire will with me! My God, how I hate you! and the man who loves me shall hate you too. But for me he shall feel only a new, a different, a more desperate love. Now, then—send for him this very hour—do you think there is any trace of doubt or fear in my heart? I defy you absolutely—you most vile creature! Tell him—tell him all you can, and let him judge between us. What cause have I to fear you, or anything that such as you can say? The life you lead, the evil you do, is repulsive in the eyes of every decent-thinking man. You to talk of honour—hypocrite, hypocrite! Having ruined first my good name, then my every happiness, when both in turn were in your power, you come now, and under the pretence of immovable devotion to honour, calmly propose to sweep away everything that makes my life worth living. You offer me money, and think I'm going to creep away overwhelmed and silenced. I have promised Geoffrey to be ever true and loyal to him; I shall keep my word! Send for him immediately if you desire, and let him decide between us."

Morris likewise stood up before he answered. His brows were contracted in a steady frown, yet the first thing he did was to break into a little scornful laugh. Then he spoke, and his voice was tense with anger.

"Make out as touching a legend as your imagination can devise, yet your own lips will condemn you. Would you not be forced to admit that you belonged to me willingly enough until I grew tired of you? Be very sure that after once acknowledging that single fact, the whole of your embroideries and explanations—all your heroics—would but fall on deaf ears. I know Geoffrey a great deal better than you can do; you've only seen one side of his nature, and that, I can understand, may easily have given you an exaggerated idea of your sway over him. Haven't you found out yet that, honourable and straightforward himself, he is impatient of deceit and trickery and double-dealing?"

She interposed with a little cry of anguish: "Oh! Morris!"

Unheedingly he went on.

"Truthful, Geoffrey is out of sympathy with liars; good-natured and quiet though he be, it is only safe to impose on him up to a certain point. You fondly hope you could melt the anger and repulsion your confession would inevitably create by means of easy tears and specious pleadings. I very much doubt it. Do you think he is totally devoid of pride and self-respect and firmness? What leads you to suppose that he would be satisfied with soiled goods? Do you really believe that the knowledge that he is not first with you will merely give him a sort of sentimental heartache—more or less violent—that will pass away once he gets used to the notion? Do you think that he would ever forget that every kiss of his wipes off one of mine? Do you dare hope you would not lose all value in his estimation once he learnt that his own cousin, for one, knows exactly the nature of the words you speak—the look that comes into your eyes—all your pretty little ways when you are most deeply lost in love? Why should you think he is devoid of the desire for exclusive possession? For my part, knowing him and his high-flown ideals, I fancy he could no longer endure the sight of you once he realised what you have been—that there is no mystery about you upon which he cannot gain enlightenment for the asking—that however passionately he may hold you in his arms, others have——"

"Stop, Morris! stop!"

The words, simple in themselves, rang out wildly in mingled entreaty and command. They were fraught with the arresting power of a great anguish, and left behind them a trail of dead silence, in which nerves were thrilled and hearts beat faster.

Evarne stood motionless for a minute, both hands stretched out in mute appeal; then, groping her way somewhat unsteadily to the sofa, she flung herself down, hiding her distorted face in the cushions. But Morris had not finished yet. He too crossed the room, and stood by the side of the prostrate figure.

"You shall never marry my cousin—understand that once for all. Never! Do you think I shall submit to see him sacrificed to the plots of a designing woman? I advise you not to venture on another bout with me. I can assure you I've retained no pleasant recollections of your temper and your impertinence. Now, I'll give you some money, and in twenty-four hours you must go. Surely you can see the game is up? Do you agree?"

He received no verbal answer, but the head buried in the cushions was slightly shaken.

Morris found this obstinacy exasperating beyond endurance.

"What a fool you are, Evarne!" he cried roughly. "What do you want to stop for? You can't surely think you will pull off that marriage? Do you fancy you could make yourself out to be merely a sort of martyr—an interesting victim? Absurd! Don't think Geoffrey would be so dull as not to realise that in all probability I have already had successors."

Evarne sprang to her feet and faced him, her eyes flashing, both her hands pressed against her breast.

"I thought you had said your very worst—you merciless monster! You, who know so well why I left Paris, almost penniless, to starve. You do not believe your own foul words—liar, slanderer!"

He put his hand firmly on her shoulder.

"Don't talk rubbish to me. Everyone knows 'it's easy to take a slice from a cut loaf.' If Geoffrey had not been so ridiculously strait-laced, he too could have got all he wanted without any of this stupid talk about marriage. At last you've forced me to tell you exactly what I think of you, and I hope you're satisfied! You know now what I should have to tell that poor boy, so had you not better come to terms with me?"

Evarne clenched her teeth ferociously, and, with a low inarticulate cry, sharply struck Morris's hand from off her shoulder. He made an angry gesture, but returning to the arm-chair sat down quietly. Once more she felt that blind fury, that strange blackness and loss of consciousness, stealing over her mind to which she had succumbed six years ago. But now she resisted its domination with all her power. Had she not Geoff to remember? She pressed her lips with such desperate violence against the ring he had given her, that the sharp stones inflicted a tiny cut. It was merely trifling, yet the pain served to recall her to herself to some extent. But she neither could nor would make any effort to guard her speech as she turned upon her traducer. Her very voice sounded strange to her own ears, and she herself was totally unaware of what she was about to utter until the words had already rung out.

"It's none of it true—you know it's not true—you know it! You must never repeat to Geoffrey any of the abominable things you've said this evening. It would kill me—I mean it—I have been hardly able to endure it alone! I know well you have no pity. How earnestly have I appealed to that, again and again, always vainly? You never have mercy. But—listen! Are you not afraid of going too far at last, of driving me to desperation? I warn you now. You will tell such evil truth and such malicious lies at your peril. If you do thereby succeed in separating me and Geoff, I shall have nothing left to wish for but revenge."

"You're getting theatrical again. Now, Evarne, Evarne!"

"Don't trifle! I warn you, it will be wiser of you to stay your hand. If you do finally ruin my life—if you do thus remorselessly torture Geoff for our ill-deeds—you'll have done the worst for me that lies within the power of man. You will have destroyed all fear of any further suffering that Heaven or earth could inflict. I tell you I should be mad, and sooner or later you should be repaid. Yes, I warn you, Lord Winborough, it will be safer for you to avoid setting loose the devil that is in me. You guard my secret—that's all I ask. I've hated you for years; now my loathing of you is nigh as strong as is my love for Geoff. I'm not the sort of woman to be defied with impunity. If you make me your active enemy I shall stop at nothing. You can believe that, can't you? I would shoot you like a dog, or stab you in the dark and glory in it, caring less than nothing for consequences."

Morris was certainly no coward, yet he quailed before the white, menacing face, in which two blazing eyes shone like beacon-fires, sending forth their warning of danger. He could well believe not only that Evarne at the moment fully meant all she said, but that she might indeed act upon her avowed intention in the future. Inwardly cursing the bad luck that had led him ever to become entangled with this resolute and determined little fury, he said, without the least outward sign of apprehension—

"So you are actually threatening me! You must be mad already!"

He crossed the room and took up his hat, but Evarne barred his further progress. Flinging herself upon her knees, she clung to the door-handle with a tenacious grip, and made a final frantic appeal.

"You mustn't go—Morris, you mustn't go. I shall keep you here. You're going to Geoffrey now—I know it. You shall not. You can't drag me away from this door, and I shall stay here until you promise not to go to him. Oh, you can strike me, or anything you like—I don't care, but I shan't move. Listen, Morris—do listen to me. I implore you—spare me. Oh, I'm afraid—I'm afraid of the future and what may come. I didn't realise before how absolutely unendurable it would be for Geoff to know. You mustn't tell him—I'd sooner die straight away—now—and so keep my secret. Morris, Morris, think of all I've endured, and spare me further—spare me this—spare Geoff—spare yourself! What can I say—what can I do? Oh, Heaven help me!"

A protracted silence ensued, in which Evarne made tremendous mental efforts to regain complete control over herself. She felt it to be necessary, and difficult though the task was in such a limited space of time, she practically succeeded. At all events she conquered outward and apparent calm, and rose from her knees, though still standing with her back pressed against the door. When she spoke next it was in strangely smooth and even tones, and with a look that was merely questioning.

"Tell me truly, Morris, do you dislike Geoff? Do you not feel resentful because he is so much younger than you are, and is to come after you in place of a son? No one can possibly realise more clearly than you do what it must mean to a man to learn about the woman he desired to marry such a story as you have to tell about me, yet you will not hold your peace. No law of right or justice can defend your thus forcing Geoff to share the misery consequent upon our past sin. You must surely have some reason for wishing him ill?"

"On the contrary, my chief object is to save him from the protracted miseries of an unhappy marriage, and incidentally to guard against his son—my future successor—being born of an unsuitable mother."

"I see. Noblesse oblige. Do you mean to say that if Geoff and I had been already married before you returned to England, you would not have remained silent?"

"It is scarcely worth discussing an imaginary case, is it?"

"But tell me."

"My dear girl, I don't know! Possibly. Indeed, I may even say probably. As a matter of fact, I'm really attached to the boy. If the evil had been beyond prevention I certainly might have seen fit to keep your secret. Even now, since my only aim is to prevent your marriage with him, if you prefer to go away without making any explanation, I give you my word that he shall never know details."

"Morris, Morris, must you tell him anyhow? Is it quite inevitable?"

"Yes, he must be told—that is to say, the engagement must be broken off. If you prefer to do the job yourself, by all means let it be so."

"You won't go to him to-night?"

"I will say nothing until this time to-morrow. Perhaps you will have made up your mind to take the right course yourself before then. I'm sorry, but that's the limit of what I can do for you."

"No, no, give me longer," she implored.

Her lips quivered, causing Morris to fear that this period of calmness might not be long sustained.

"Well, I'll give you two days," he agreed. "But it cannot possibly be allowed to continue longer than that. That's forty-eight hours too long."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes, yes. Now stand aside from the door, there's a good girl."

As she obeyed silently, he stepped out into the passage. "Go to bed, ma chÉrie," he advised. "Have a good night. You'll feel better in the morning."

Impatiently she signed to him to be gone, then flung herself into her favourite chair, rested her elbows on one of its arms, and supported her chin on her hands. Thus she sat motionless, gazing fixedly into vacancy with hard, dry eyes, forgetful or regardless of Morris's presence in the open doorway.

He lingered a few moments, looking with mingled feelings at her now expressionless but perfect-featured face and graceful form. But she neither spoke nor glanced in his direction, and very soon the street door had closed behind him with a final bang.