"Look here, Cynthia," he said abruptly, when he met her the next morning—"this won't do! I was to blame; I made a fool of myself last night."

"What—in saying that you loved me?" she inquired.

"Yes—in saying that I loved you. You know very well that I did not intend to say it."

"Does that matter?" she asked, in a low voice. She had taken his hand, and was caressing his strong white fingers tenderly.

"I did it against my conscience."

"Because of that other girl?"

He considered a moment and then said "Yes." But he was not prepared for the steadily penetrating gaze which she immediately turned upon him.

"I don't quite believe that," she said slowly.

"You doubt my word?"

"Yes," said Cynthia, in a dry matter-of-fact way; "I doubt everybody's word. Nobody tells the whole truth in this agreeable world. You forget that I am not a baby—that I have knocked about a good deal and seen the seamy side of life. Perhaps you would like me better if I had not? You would like me to have lived in the country all my life, and to be gentle and innocent and dull?"

"I could not like you better than as you are," he said, passing one arm round her.

"That's right. You do love me?"

"Yes, Cynthia."

"That is not a very warm assurance. Do you feel so coldly towards me this morning?"

"My dearest—no!"

"That's better. Dear Hubert——may I call you Hubert?"—he answered with a little pressure of his arm—"if you really care for me, I can say what I was going to say; but, if you don't—if that was how you made a fool of yourself by saying so when you did not mean it—then tell me, and I shall know whether to speak or to hold my tongue."She spoke forcibly, with a directness and simplicity which enchanted Hubert in spite of himself. He assured her that he loved her from the bottom of his heart, that she might speak freely, and that he would be guided, if possible, by what she said—he knew that she was good and wise and generous. And then he kissed her once more on the lips, and she believed his words. She began to speak, blushing a little as she did so.

"I only want to understand. You are not married, Hubert?"

"My darling—no!"

"And you said last night that you were not engaged?"

"I am not engaged," he said more slowly.

"You have—some other engagement—entanglement—of which I do not know?"

"No, Cynthia."

"Then," she, said, facing him with a boldness which he thoroughly admired, "why do you want to draw back from what you said to me last night?"

Hubert looked more than serious—he looked unhappy.

"Draw back," he said slowly—"that is a hard expression!"

"It is a hard thing," she rejoined.

"Cynthia, if I had suspected—if you had ever given me any reason to suppose—that you were willing to think of me as more than a friend, I would not have spoken. I am not worthy of you; I can but drag you back from a brilliant career; it is not fair to you."

The girl stood regarding him meditatively; there was neither fear nor sign of yielding in her eyes.

"That does not sound natural," she said; "it does not sound quite real. Excuse me, but you would not, merely as a novelist, make your hero try to back out of an engagement for that reason. If he gave it, the reader would know at once there was something else—something in the background. I believe that the amiable heroine would accept the explanation and go away broken-hearted. But I," said Cynthia, with a little stamp of impatience—"I am not amiable, and I mean neither to believe in your explanation nor to break my heart; and so, Mr. Hubert Lepel, you had better tell me what this is really all about."

"Ah, Cynthia, I had better let you think me a fool or a brute than lead you into this!" cried Hubert."But I should never think you a fool or a brute, whatever you did."

"You do not know what you might think of me—in other circumstances."

"Try," she said, almost in a whisper, slipping her hand into his.

But he shook his head and looked down, knitting his brows uneasily.

"What will satisfy you?" she asked at length, evidently convinced from his manner that something was more seriously amiss than she had thought. "Do you not know that where I give my love I give my whole trust and confidence. More than that, I shall never take it away, even if all the world told me—even if I had some reason to believe—that you were not worthy of my trust. Oh, what does the world know of you? I understand you much better. Can't you see that a woman loves a man for what he is, and not for what he does?"

"What he does proceeds from what he is, Cynthia, I am afraid," said Hubert sadly.

"Not always. People are often betrayed into doing things that do not show their real nature at all," said the girl eagerly. "A man gives way to a sudden temptation—he strikes a blow—and the world calls him a ruffian and a murderer; or he takes what belongs to another because he is starving, and the world calls him a common thief. We cannot judge."

He had drawn away from her, and was resting his arm on the mantelpiece, and his head upon his arm. A strange vibration passed through his frame as he listened to her words.

"Do you think, then," he said at last, speaking with difficulty, and without raising his head, "that you could love a man that the world condemned, or would condemn, if they knew all—could you love a man who was an outcast, a felon, a—a murderer?"

"I am sure that I could," said Cynthia fervently. For the moment she was not thinking of Hubert, however, but of another man whom she had loved, and whom she had seen condemned to death for the murder of Sydney Vane.

Hubert put out his left hand and drew her close to him. Even now there was one thing that he dared not say; he did not dare ask her whether she could love a man who had allowed another to bear the punishment which he had deserved, although he had hidden his guilt from a desire to save another rather than himself. He remained for a few moments in the same posture, with his face hidden on his right arm and his left encircling Cynthia; but, after a time, he stood up, drew her closer to his breast and kissed her forehead. Then he put her away from him and crossed his arms across his chest. His face was pale and drawn, there were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his lip was bitten underneath his thick moustache.

"Cynthia," he said hoarsely, "to you, at least, I will try to be an honest man. I never knew a woman as brave, as true as you are; I'll do my best, at any rate, to be not altogether unworthy of you, my darling. I would give all I have in the world if I could ask you to marry me, Cynthia; but I can't. There is an obstacle; you were right—I am not free."

"I thought there was some real reason," she said quietly. "I knew you would not have spoken as you did without a reason."

"I am not engaged; or perhaps I should say that I am engaged, and that she is free. If at the end of two years she is stronger in health, and her uncle withdraws his opposition, and she cares to accept me, I have promised to be ready. The last thing I ever meant was to ask any other woman to be my wife. But I was weak enough not to deny myself the bitter-sweet solace of telling you that I loved you; and thus I have drawn down punishment on myself. Cynthia, can you ever forgive me?"

She did not answer; she seemed to be thinking deeply. After a few minutes' silence, she looked at him wistfully, and asked another question.

"You said she did not love you. Was that true?"

"I believe so."

"Then why does she want to marry you?" There was something child-like in Cynthia's tone.

"I don't think she does, Cynthia; I think it is only her uncle's wife who has been trying to bring about a marriage between us; and perhaps it was my conviction that this marriage would never come about which made me less careful than I might have been. Assuredly I never intended to tell you what I told you last night."

"But I am glad you did," said Cynthia, almost inaudibly. Then she put her hand on Hubert's arm, and looked at him with a soft and beautiful expression in her large dark eyes. "I am glad, because it will make life easier for me to know that you care for me. Now I want you to listen to me for a few moments. From what you say, I think that this girl is weak in health, an orphan, and not perhaps very happy in her home? Yes, that is so—is it not? Do you think then that I would for a moment rob her of what might make all her happiness? You say that she does not care for you. But you may be mistaken; you know you thought that—that I did not care either. You must wait for her, and see what will happen at the end of the two years. If she claims you then—well, it will be for you to decide whether you will marry her; but I shall not marry you unless she gives you up of her own free will. And, if she does—and if you care for me still——"

"Then you will be my wife?"

Cynthia paused.

"Then," she said slowly—"then you may, if you like, ask me again. But then you will perhaps remember that I am a nobody—that I was born in a cottage and educated at a charity-school—that I—that I——No, I can't tell you my history now—don't ask me; if you love me at all, don't ask me that! I will tell you—I promise you—before I marry you, if ever—at the end of two years—at the end of half a century—you ask me again."

She was weeping in his arms—she, the brilliant, joyous, successful woman, with a life of distinction opening out before her, with spirits and courage that never failed, with beauty and gifts that were capable of charming all the world—weeping like a child, and in need of comfort like a child. What could he do?

"My darling, my own darling," he said, "I cannot bear to hear you speak so! Do you doubt my love for you, Cynthia? Tell me nothing but what you please; I shall never ask you a question—never desire to know more than what you choose to tell. And in two years——Oh, what can I say? Marry me to-morrow, Cynthia, my dearest, and let everything else go by!"

"And despise you ever after for yielding to my weakness?" she said, checking her tears. "Do you think I could bear you to lower yourself for my sake? No; you shall keep your word to her—to the woman, whoever she may be, who has your word. But I—I have your heart."

She sent him away from her then with proud but gentle words, caressing him, flattering him, after the fashion of women with those they love, but inexorably determined that he should keep his word. For she had a strong sense of honor and honesty, and she could not bear to think that he could be false to anyone who trusted him. It was weighing heavily on her own conscience that she had deceived him once.

Hubert left her with his senses in a whirl. He knew, as he said, that he had been weak; but Cynthia's beauty intoxicated him. But for her determination, her courage, he would have failed to keep up even the appearance of faith with Enid—he would have been utterly careless of Enid's trust in him. But this declension Cynthia was resolved not to permit. It was strange to see what nobleness of mind and generosity of feeling existed beneath her light and careless demeanor; and while these characteristics humiliated her lover, they filled him with genuine pride and admiration. She was not a woman to be lightly wooed and lightly won; she was worthy of respect, even of reverence. And, as he thought of her, his heart burned with anger against the innocent girl at Beechfield who had dared to speak of this noble woman with something very like contempt.

Cynthia was glad that she had no public engagement for that evening. She was invited to go with Madame della Scala to a large party; but she pleaded a headache, and begged to be allowed to stay at home. Madame scolded her playfully, but did not oppose her whim; she was sufficiently proud of her pupil and housemate to let her take her own way—a practical compliment for which Cynthia was grateful.

When the old lady had gone, Cynthia returned to her favorite rose-lighted sitting-room, and sank somewhat languidly into a lounging-chair. She had forbidden Hubert to return to her that night—she had said that she wanted to be alone; and now she was half inclined to repent her own peremptoriness. "I might have let him come just once," she said to herself. "I shall not allow him to come often, or to be anything but a friend to me; but I feel lonely to-night. It is foolish of me to be depressed. A month ago I should have thought myself happy indeed if I could have known that he loved me; and now I am more miserable than ever. I suppose it is the thought of that other girl—mean, jealous, miserable wretch that I am! But I will not be mean or jealous any longer. He has promised himself to her, and he shall keep his word."

She was startled from these reflections by the sound of a tap at the door, followed by the entrance of a maid whose office it was especially to attend on Miss West.

"If you please, miss," she said, in a low and rather confidential tone—"if you please, there's a—a person at the door that asks to see you."

"It is late for visitors," said Cynthia. "A lady, Mary?"

"No, miss."

"A gentleman? I do not see gentlemen, when Madame is out, at this hour of the night. It is ten o'clock. Tell him to come to-morrow."

"I did, miss. He said to-morrow wouldn't do. He asked me to mention 'Beechfield' to you, miss, and to say that he came from America."

"Old or young, Mary?" The color was leaving Cynthia's face.

"Old, miss. He has white hair and black eyes, and looks like a sort of superior working-man."

Cynthia deliberated. Mary watched her in silence, and then made a low-voiced suggestion.

"There's cook's young man in the kitchen, miss, and he's a policeman. Shall I ask him to step up to the front and tell the man to move on?"

"Oh, no, no!" said Cynthia, suddenly shrinking. "I will see the man, Mary. I think that perhaps he knows a place—some people that I used to know."

There was a sort of terror in her face. Mary turned rather reluctantly to the door.

"Shall I come in too, miss, or shall I stand in the passage?"

"Neither," said Cynthia, with a little laugh. "Go down to your supper, Mary, and I will manage the visitor. Show him in here."

She seemed so composed once more that Mary was reassured. The girl went back to the hall door, and Cynthia rose to her feet with the look of one who was nerving herself for some terrible ordeal. She kept her eyes upon the door; but, when the visitor appeared, they were so dim with agitation that she could hardly see the face or the features of the man whom Mary decorously announced as—

"Mr. Reuben Dare."