This was too much for Edward Cossey, who, as any man must, had been much touched by this unexpected outburst.  “Look here, Belle,” he blurted out on the impulse of the moment, “I am sick and tired of all this sort of thing.  For more than a year my life has been nothing but a living lie, and I can’t stand it, and that’s a fact.  I tell you what it is:  I think we had better just take the train to Paris and go off at once, or else give it all up.  It is impossible to go on living in this atmosphere of continual falsehood.”

She stopped crying.  “Do you really care for me enough for that, Edward?” she said.

“Yes, yes,” he said, somewhat impatiently, “you can see I do or I should not make the offer.  Say the word and I’ll do it.”

She thought for a moment, and then looked up again.  “No,” she said, “no, Edward.”

“Why?” he asked.  “Are you afraid?”

“Afraid!” she answered with a gesture of contempt, “what have I to be afraid of?  Do you suppose such women as I am have any care for consequences?  We have got beyond that—­that is, for ourselves.  But we can still feel a little for others.  It would ruin you to do such a thing, socially and in every other way.  You know you have often said that your father would cut you out of his will if you compromised yourself and him like that.”

“Oh, yes, he would.  I am sure of it.  He would never forgive the scandal; he has a hatred of that sort of thing.  But I could get a few thousands ready money, and we could change our names and go off to a colony or something.”

“It is very good of you to say so,” she said humbly.  “I don’t deserve it, and I will not take advantage of you.  You will be sorry that you made the offer by to-morrow.  Ah, yes, I know it is only because I cried.  No, we must go on as we are until the end comes, and then you can discard me; for all the blame will follow me, and I shall deserve it, too.  I am older than you, you know, and a woman; and my husband will make some money out of you, and then it will all be forgotten, and I shall have had my day and go my own way to oblivion, like thousands of other unfortunate women before me, and it will be all the same a hundred years hence, don’t you see?  But, Edward, remember one thing.  Don’t play me any tricks, for I am not of the sort to bear it.  Have patience and wait for the end; these things cannot last very long, and I shall never be a burden on you.  Don’t desert me or make me jealous, for I cannot bear it, I cannot, indeed, and I do not know what I might do—­make a scandal or kill myself or you, I’m sure I can’t say what.  You nearly sent me wild the other day when you were carrying on with Miss de la Molle—­ah, yes, I saw it all—­I have suspected you for a long time, and sometimes I think that you are really in love with her.  And now, sir, I tell you what it is, we have had enough of this melancholy talk to last me for a month.  Why did you come here at all this morning, just when