She shook her head.

“Or to stay with your father?”

“No!” There was a strange intense note in the brief word.

“Then come with me, Sisily.  I love you more than all the world.  We have nobody to please except our two selves.”

“You have your duty to your father to consider.”

“Let us leave him out of the question,” said the young man hurriedly.  “He is as selfish and heartless as—­his brother.  I tell you again, I’ll have nothing to do with this title or your father’s money.  I will make my own way with you by my side.  I have a friend in London who would be only too glad to receive you until we could be married.  You are leaving your home to-night, and you are as free as air to choose.  Will you come?”

“Of course,” he began again, in a different tone, as she still kept silent, “it may be that I have misunderstood.  I thought that you had learnt to care for me.  But if you dislike me—­”

“Do not say that,” she replied, turning a deeply wounded face towards him.  “It is not that—­do not think so.  You have been kind and good to me, and I—­I shall never forget you.  But I—­I have a contempt for myself.”

“I have a contempt for myself also after this afternoon,” he retorted.  “Come, Sisily—­”

“No, it is impossible.  Hark, what was that?” The girl spoke with a sudden uplifting of her head.  Above them, from the direction of the house, the sound of a voice was heard.

“It is Aunt calling me,” she said, “I must go.  Good-bye.”

“Is it good-bye, then?”

“It must be.  But I shall often think of you.”

He had the unforgettable sensation of two soft burning lips touching the hand which hung at his side, and turned swiftly—­but too late.  She was speeding along the rocky pathway which led to the house.

“Wait, Sisily!” he cried.

A seabird’s mournful cry was the only answer.  He glanced irresolutely towards the path, and then retraced his steps towards the edge of the cliffs.

A cold sun dipped suddenly, as though pulled down by a stealthy invisible hand.  The twilight deepened, and in the lengthening shadows the rocks assumed crouching menacing shapes which seemed to watch the solitary figure standing near the edge, lost in thought.

CHAPTER V

Through the flowers on the hotel dining-table Mrs. Pendleton was able to watch her niece unnoticed, because the flowers occupied such an unreasonably large space on the little round table set for three.  Besides, Sisily had been engrossed in her own thoughts throughout the meal.  Mrs. Pendleton was disturbed by her quietness.  There was something unnatural about it—­something not girlish.  She had not spoken once during the drive from Flint House to Penzance, and she sat through dinner with a still white face, silent, and hardly eating anything.