light-hearted, and without memories.  The rapid movement intoxicated her; the lights no longer dazzled but excited her; she was not oppressed by the many eyes that looked at her:  she was elated, made proud and glad, for was she not dancing as none of them could, and with Edgar?  Edgar, too, was not the Edgar of the dull, prosaic every day, but was changed like all the rest.  He was like some prince of old-time romance, some knight of chivalry, some hero of history, and the poetry, the passion, that seemed to inspire her with more than ordinary life were reflected in him.

“My darling!” Edgar said below his breath, pressing her to him warmly, “do you think now that it is no pleasure for me to dance with you?”

Leam, startled at the word, the tone, looked up half scared into his face; then—­she herself scarcely knowing what she did, but instinctively answering what she saw—­Edgar felt her little hand on his shoulder lie there heavily, her figure yield to his arm as it had never yielded before, while her head drooped like a flower faint with the heavy sunlight till it nearly touched his breast.

“My Leam!” he whimpered again, “I love you!  I love you! my Leam, my love!”

Leam sighed dreamily.  “This is like death—­and heaven,” she murmured as he stopped by the window where she had sat with Alick, and carried her half fainting into the garden.

The cool night-air revived her, and she opened her eyes, wondering where she was and what had happened.  Even now she could not take it all in, but she knew that something had come to her of which she was ashamed, and that she must not stay here alone with Major Harrowby.  With an attempt at her old pride she tried to draw herself away, not looking at him, feeling abashed and humbled.  “I will dance no more,” she said faltering.

Edgar, who had her hands clasped in his, drew her gently to him again.  He held her hands up to his breast, both enclosed in one of his, his other arm round her waist.  “Will you leave me, my Leam?” he said in his sweetest tones.  “Do you not love me well enough to stay with me?”

“I must go in,” said Leam faintly.

“Before you have said that you love me?  Will you not say so, Leam?  I love you, my darling:  no man ever loved as I love you, my sweetest Leam, my angel, my delight!  Tell me that you love me—­tell me, darling.”

“Is this love?” said Leam turning away her head, her whole being penetrated with a kind of blissful agony, where she did not know which was strongest, the pleasure or the pain:  perhaps it was the pain.

“Kiss me, and then I shall know,” whispered Edgar.

“No,” said Leam trembling and hiding her face, “I must not do that.”

“Ah, you do not love me, and we shall never meet again,” he cried in the disappointed lover’s well-feigned tone of despair, dropping her hands and half turning away.

Leam stood for a moment as if she hesitated:  then, with an indescribable air of self-surrender, she went closer to him and laid her hands very gently on his shoulders.  “I will kiss you rather than make you unhappy,” she said in a soft voice, lifting up her face.