“You will listen.  It is no harm to you.  I must speak now, or I will die,” said he, quite wildly; “and if you think I am mad, perhaps you are right, but people have pity for a madman.  Do you know why I have come to London?  It is to see you.  I could bear it no longer—­the fire that was burning and killing me.  Oh, it is no use my saying that it is love for you—­I do not know what it is—­but only that I must tell you, and you cannot be angry with me—­you can only pity me and go away.  That is it—­it is nothing to you—­you can go away.”

She burst into tears, and snatched her hand from him, and with both hands covered her face.

“Ah!” said he, “is it pain to you that I should tell you of this madness?  But you will forgive me—­and you will forget it—­and it will not pain you to-morrow or any other day.  Surely you are not to blame!  Do you remember the days when we became friends? it seems a long time ago, but they were beautiful days, and you were very kind to me, and I was glad I had come to London to make so kind a friend.  And it was no fault of yours that I went away with that sickness of the heart; and how could you know about the burning fire, and the feeling that if I did not see you I might as well be dead?  And I will call you Gertrude for once only.  Gertrude, sit down now—­for a moment or two—­and do not grieve any more over what is only a misfortune.  I want to tell you.  After I have spoken, I will go away, and there will be an end of the trouble.”

She did sit down; her hands were clasped in piteous despair; he saw the tear drops on the long, beautiful lashes.

“And if the drowning man cries?” said he.  “It is only a breath.  The waves go over him, and the world is at peace.  And oh! do you know that I have taken a strange fancy of late—­But I will not trouble you with that; you may hear of it afterward; you will understand, and know you have no blame, and there is an end of trouble.  It is quite strange what fancies get into one’s head when one is—­sick—­heart-sick.  Do you know what I thought this morning?  Will you believe it?  Will you let the drowning man cry out in his madness?  Why, I said to myself, ’Up now, and have courage!  Up now, and be brave, and win a bride as they used to do in the old stories.’  And it was you—­it was you—­my madness thought of.  ‘You will tell her,’ I said to myself, ’of all the love and the worship you have for her, and your thinking of her by day and by night; and she is a woman, and she will have pity.  And then in her surprise—­why—­’ But then you came into the room—­it is only a little while ago—­but it seems for ever and ever away now—­and I have only pained you—­”

She sprang to her feet; her face white, her lips proud and determined.  And for a second she put her hands on his shoulders; and the wet, full, piteous eyes met his.  But as rapidly she withdrew them—­almost shuddering—­and turned, away; and her hands were apart, each clasped, and she bowed her head.  Gertrude White had never acted like that on any stage.