When the passionate outburst of tears had had full vent, I unclasped her arms and placed her in a chair.

“Let us talk reasonably, Coralie.  You ask me what is impossible.  I shall never, with life, give up my engagement to Miss Thesiger.”

A strange, bitter smile parted her white lips.  I knew afterward what that meant.

“It is better to speak plainly,” I continued, “in a case like this—­better for both.  Listen to me, and believe, Coralie, that even had I never seen Miss Thesiger, I—­forgive me, but it is the truth—­I should never have loved you with more than a cousin’s love; my friendship, my esteem, my care, are all yours; more I can never give you.”

Pray God I may never see another woman as I saw her then.  She rose; with her white face and glittering eyes.  Then came to mind that line: 

    “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

“You throw the love I have offered you back in my face, Sir Edgar?”

“No, dear; I lay it kindly and gratefully in your hands, to make the joy and happiness of some good man’s life.”

“You distinctly tell me that you never did—­never could love me?”

“I love you as my cousin, Coralie—­not in any other way.”

“You would never, never, under any circumstances, make me your wife?”

“Why do you pain me so, Coralie?”

“I want a plain answer—­you would never marry me?  Say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“No—­since you force me into ungracious speech.”

“Thank you,” she said, bitterly; “I am answered—­there can be no mistake.  Sir Edgar, you speak your mind with honorable frankness.  I have given you every chance to correct yourself, should you be mistaken.  I am, perhaps, more richly endowed than you think for.  Would my dowry make any difference?”

“No,” I replied, sternly; “and, Coralie, pray pardon me; it is high time that this should end.”

“It shall end at once,” she replied.  “It is to be war between us, Sir Edgar—­war to the knife!”

“There is no need for war,” I said, wearily.  “Let us forget all about it.  There will be no need for you to do anything romantic, Coralie.  Stay on at Crown Anstey, and make yourself happy with Clare.”

“Yes,” she replied, with that strange smile, “I shall remain at Crown Anstey—­I have no thought of going away.”

She turned as though she would quit the room.  I went up to her.

“Good night, Coralie.  Shake hands, and let us part friends.”

“When I touch your hand again, Sir Edgar, it will be under very different circumstances.  Good night.”

She swept from the room with the dignity of an outraged queen, leaving me unhappy, bewildered and anxious.

I had the most chivalrous love and devotion for all womankind, and I must confess to feeling most dreadfully shocked.  It seemed almost unheard of.

Then I tried to forget it—­the passionate words, the pale, tearful beauty of that wonderful face.  Strange that Clare’s conviction should so soon be realized.  What of that nervous conviction she had that evil would come of this fair woman’s love?  What if that were realized, too?