suffered and how her hand had been forced. But she dared not give way
to that impulse. . .not now, when she was just beginning to feel that

he still loved her, when she hoped that she could win him back. She
dared not make another confession to him. After all, he might not

understand; he might not sympathise with her struggles and temptation.
His love still dormant might sleep the sleep of death.

Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole
attitude was one of intenselonging--a veritable prayer for that

confidence, which her foolish pride withheld from him. When she
remained silent he sighed, and said with marked coldness--

"Faith, Madame, since it distresses you, we will not speak of
it. . . . As for Armand, I pray you have no fear. I pledge you

my word that he shall be safe. Now, have I your permission to go?
The hour is getting late, and. . ."

"You will at least accept my gratitude?" she said, as she drew
quite close to him, and speaking with real tenderness.

With a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have taken
her then in his arms, for her eyes were swimming in tears, which he

longed to kiss away; but she had lured him once, just like this, then
cast him aside like an ill-fitting glove. He thought this was but a

mood, a caprice, and he was too proud to lend himself to it once
again.

"It is too soon, Madame!" he said quietly; "I have done
nothing as yet. The hour is late, and you must be fatigued. Your

women will be waiting for you upstairs."
He stood aside to allow her to pass. She sighed, a quick sigh

of disappointment. His pride and her beauty had been in direct
conflict, and his pride had remained the conqueror" target="_blank" title="n.征服者，胜利者">conqueror. Perhaps, after

all, she had been deceived just now; what she took to be the light of
love in his eyes might only have been the passion of pride or, who

knows, of hatred instead of love. She stood looking at him for a
moment or two longer. He was again as rigid, as impassive, as before.

Pride had conquered, and he cared naught for her. The grey light of
dawn was gradually yielding to the rosy light of the rising sun.

Birds began to twitter; Nature awakened, smiling in happy response to
the warmth of this glorious October morning. Only between these two

hearts there lay a strong, impassable barrier, built up of pride on
both sides, which neither of them cared to be the first to demolish.

He had bent his tall figure in a low ceremonious bow, as she
finally, with another bitter little sigh, began to mount the terrace

steps.
The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept the dead

leaves off the steps, making a faint harmonious sh--sh--sh as she
glided up, with one hand resting on the balustrade, the rosy light of

dawn making an aureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies
on her head and arms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors

which led into the house. Before entering, she paused once again to
look at him, hoping against hope to see his arms stretched out to her,

and to hear his voice calling her back. But he had not moved; his
massive figure looked the very personification of unbending pride, of

fierce obstinacy.
Hot tears again surged to her eyes, as she would not let him

see them, she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up
to her own rooms.

Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to
the rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made

her own sufferings seem but light and easy to bear--a strong man,
overwhelmed with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given

way at last, obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a
man madly, blindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light

footsteps had died away within the house, he knelt down upon the
terrace steps, and in the very madness of his love he kissed one by

one the places where her small foot had trodden, and the stone
balustrade there, where her tiny hand had rested last.

CHAPTER XVII FAREWELL
When Marguerite reached her room, she found her maid terribly

anxious about her.
"Your ladyship will be so tired," said the poor woman, whose

own eyes were half closed with sleep. "It is past five o'clock."
"Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently," said

Marguerite, kindly; "but you are very tired now, so go to bed at once.
I'll get into bed alone."

"But, my lady. . ."
"Now, don't argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me a wrap, and

leave me alone."
Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her mistress's

gorgeous ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a soft billowy gown.
"Does your ladyship wish for anything else?" she asked, when

that was done.
"No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out."

"Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady."
"Good-night, Louise."

When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the curtains and
threw open the windows. The garden and the river beyond were flooded

with rosy light. Far away to the east, the rays of the rising sun had
changed the rose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and

Marguerite looked down upon the terrace where she had stood a few
moments ago trying in vain to win back a man's love, which once had

been so wholly hers.
It was strange that through all her troubles, all her anxiety

for Armand, she was mostlyconscious at the present moment of a keen
and bitter heartache.

Her very limbs seemed to ache with longing for the love of a
man who had spurned her, who had resisted her tenderness, remained

cold to her appeals, and had not responded to the glow of passion,
which had caused her to feel and hope that those happy olden days in

Paris were not all dead and forgotten.
How strange it all was! She loved him still. And now that

she looked back upon the last few months of misunderstandings and of
loneliness, she realised that she had never ceased to love him; that

deep down in her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish
inanities, his empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were nothing but a

mask; that the real man, strong, passionate, wilful, was there
still--the man she had loved, whose intensity had fascinated her,

whose personality attracted her, since she always felt that behind his
apparently slow wits there was a certain something, which he kept

hidden from all the world, and most especially from her.
A woman's heart is such a complex problem--the owner thereof

is often most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.
Did Marguerite Blakeney, "the cleverest woman in Europe,"

really love a fool? Was it love that she had felt for him a year ago
when she married him? Was it love she felt for him now that she

realised that he still loved her, but that he would not become her
slave, her passionate, ardent lover once again? Nay! Marguerite

herself could not have told that. Not at this moment at any rate;
perhaps her pride had sealed her mind against a better understanding

of her own heart. But this she did know--that she meant to capture
that obstinate heart back again. That she would conquer once

more. . .and then, that she would never lose him. . . . She would
keep him, keep his love, deserve it, and cherish it; for this much was

certain, that there was no longer any happiness possible for her
without that one man's love.

Thus the most contradictory thoughts and emotions rushed madly
through her mind. Absorbed in them, she had allowed time to slip by;

perhaps, tired out with long excitement, she had actually closed her
eyes and sunk into a troubled sleep, wherein quickly fleeting dreams

seemed but the continuation of her anxious thoughts--when suddenly she
was roused, from dream or meditation, by the noise of footsteps

outside her door.