“It seems strange that I should be listening to you quite calmly, as I am; although you are proposing what the world thinks a disgraceful thing.”

“Does it matter what the world thinks?  I would not, even to save myself from a wasted career, ask you to take a step that would really disgrace you.  But I cannot bear to think of you looking back some day over a barren past, and knowing that you sacrificed your happiness to Fashion—­an idol.  Do you remember last Sunday when we discussed that bitter saying that women who have sacrificed their feelings to the laws of society secretly know that they have been fools for their pains? He did not deny it.  You could give no good reason for disbelieving it.  You know it to be true; and I am only striving to save you from that vain regret.  You have shewn that you can obey the world with grace and dignity when the world is right.  Shew now that you can defy it fearlessly when it is tyrannical.  Trust your heart, Marian—­my darling Marian:  trust your heart—­and mine.”

“For what hour have you ordered the carriage?”

“The carriage!  Is that what you say to me at such a moment?  Are you still flippant as ever?”

“I am quite serious.  Say no more now.  If I go, I will go deliberately, and not on the spur of your persuasion.  I must have time to think.  What hour did you say?”

“Seven.”

“Then it is time for me to dress.  You will not mind waiting here alone?”

“If you would only give me one hopeful word, I think I could wait happily forever.”

“What can I say?”

“Say that you love me.”

“I am striving to discover whether I have always loved you or not.  Surely, if there be such a thing as love, we should be lovers.”

He was chilled by her solemn tone; but he made a movement as if to embrace her.

“No,” she said, stopping him.  “I am his wife still.  I have not yet pronounced my own divorce.”

She left the room; and he walked uneasily to and fro Until she returned, dressed in white.  He gazed at her with quickened breath as she confronted him.  Neither heeded the click of her husband’s latchkey in the door without.

“When I was a little boy, Marian,” he said, gazing at her, “I used to think that Paul Delaroche’s Christian martyr was the most exquisite vision of beauty in the world.  I have the same feeling as I look at you now.”

“Marian reminds me of that picture too,” said Conolly.  “I remember wondering,” he continued, smiling, as they started and turned toward him, “why the young lady—­she was such a perfect lady—­was martyred in a ball dress, as I took her costume to be.  Marian’s wreath adds to the force of the reminiscence.”

“If I recollect aright,” said Marian, taking up his bantering tone with a sharper irony, “Delaroche’s martyr shewed a fine sense of the necessity of having her wrists gracefully tied.  I am about to follow her example by wearing these bracelets, which I can never fasten.  Be good enough to assist me, both of you.”