“In other words, you are determined to believe that the grapes above your reach, instead of being sour, are the sweetest in existence.”

“At least I harm only myself by such an hallucination, if it is an hallucination.”

“But you may harm yourself more than you imagine,” said she with a nervous cadence, in her voice.  “For the sake of a hopeless passion for a woman who has no more heart than my fan you will sacrifice more than you are aware of—­more, perhaps, than you can ever regain.”

She laid her hand—­a pretty, white hand, gleaming with jewels—­on his arm at the last words, and it was fortunate, perhaps, that she could not tell with what an effort he restrained himself from shaking it impatiently off.  A quick feeling of repulsion came over him like an electric shock.  Hitherto he had been somewhat flattered, somewhat amused, and only occasionally a little bored, by the favor which the beautiful and wealthy young widow had so openly accorded him; but now in a second he felt that thrill of disgust which always comes to a sensitive man when he sees a woman step beyond the pale of delicate womanhood.  If he had been one shade less of a gentleman, he would have said something which Mrs. Lancaster could never have forgotten.  As it was, he had sufficient command of himself to speak carelessly.  “I was never quick at reading riddles,” he said.  “I am unable to imagine what sacrifice I should make by indulging the ‘hopeless passion’ for Miss Milbourne with which you are kind enough to credit me.”

“With which I credit you?” she repeated eagerly.  “Am I wrong, then?  If you can tell me that, Victor—­”

But he interrupted her quickly:  “You ought to know, Mrs. Lancaster, that this is a thing which a sensible man only tells to one woman; but, since you seem to take an interest in the subject, there is nothing which I need hesitate to acknowledge in the fact that, however hopeless my passion for Eleanor Milbourne may be, it is the very essence of my life, and can only end with my life.”

“We all think that when we are young and foolish, and very much in love,” said Mrs. Lancaster coolly—­whatever stab his words gave the kindly darkness hid—­“but I think you are more than usually mad.  If she is not already engaged to Marston Brent, she will be as soon as he returns.  I know that her family confidently expect the match, and in any case” (emphatically) “Eleanor Milbourne is the last woman in the world whom a penniless man need hope to win.”

“I know that as well as you do,” said Clare.  “I have no hope of winning her, and I am going to Egypt next month.”

He uttered the last words as if he meant them to end the subject, but it is doubtful whether they would have done so if they had not at that moment found themselves close upon the house, having paid little attention to the path which they were following.  As they emerged from the shrubbery they were both a little surprised to see a carriage standing in the full glow of the light from the open hall door.