Something like a quiver of rage passed through the young man at this moment, but his teeth were kept firmly together.  She did not look up to his face.

“That is not all.  I must tell you that I was deeply shocked and grieved by this letter; but on looking back over the past six weeks I think a suspicious person might have been justified in complaining to Mr. Roscorla.  And—­and—­and, Mr. Trelyon, did you see that dried flower in my Prayer-book last night?”

Her resolution was fast ebbing away:  he could see that her hands were clasped piteously together.

“Yes, I did,” he said boldly.

“And oh what could you have thought of me?” she cried in her distress.  “Indeed, Mr. Trelyon, it was all a mistake.  I did not keep the flower—­I did not, indeed.  And when I thought you had seen it I could have died for shame.”

“And why?” he said in a way that made her lift up her startled eyes to his face.  There was a strange look there, as of a man who had suddenly resolved to dare his fate, and yet was imploringly anxious as to the result.  “For you have been frank with me, and so will I be with you.  Why should you not have kept that flower?  Yes, I sent it to you, and with all the purpose that such a thing could carry.  Yes, you may be as angry as you please; only listen, Wenna.  You don’t love that man whom you are engaged to marry; you know in your heart that you do not believe in his love for you; and are you surprised that people should wish to have you break off an engagement that will only bring you misery?”

“Mr. Trelyon!”

“Wenna, one minute:  you must hear me.  Do with my offer what you like—­only here it is:  give me the power to break off this engagement, and I will.  Give me the right to do that.  Don’t mind me in the matter.  It is true I love you—­there, I will say it again:  there is nothing I think of from morning till night but my love for you—­and if you would say that some time I might ask you to be my wife, you would give me more happiness than you could dream of.  But I don’t wish that now.  I will remain your friend if you like, Wenna; only let me do this thing for you, and when you are free you can then say yes or no.”

She rose, not proud and indignant, but weeping bitterly.  “I have deserved this,” she said, apparently overwhelmed with mortification and self-reproach.  “I have earned this shame, and I must bear it.  I do not blame you, Mr. Trelyon:  it is I who have done this.  How many weeks is it since the man left England to whom I promised to be faithful? and already—­But this I can do, Mr. Trelyon:  I will bid you good-bye now, and I will never see you again.”

Her face was quite pale.  She held out her hand.

“No,” he said firmly.  “We don’t part like that, Wenna.  First, let me say that you have nothing to accuse yourself of.  You have done nothing and said nothing of which any man, however mean and suspicious, could complain.  Perhaps I was too hasty in speaking of my love for you.  In that case I’ve got to pay for my folly.”