“No, no!  I am not he who promised to marry her.  She wouldn’t have me, if I asked her:  she don’t know me.  I’m going to marry some one else. She’ll love me, no matter who I am.  Shall I tell you her name?”

Cornelia could only shiver—­shiver—­with dry mouth and dilated eyes.  Bressant put his hand on her shoulder, and drew her forward a step or two, so that the white moonlight fell upon her.

“Cornelia Valeyon is her name,” said he, and then, as she remained rigid, he bent forward, with a whispered laugh, and kissed her on the face.

“There! now we belong to each other—­a good match, aren’t we?  Quick! now; run into the house, and get your things on.  You must walk home with me, and we’ll arrange every thing.  Go!  I shall wait for you here.”

She reentered the house, cold and dizzy, just as her partner arrived with the coffee.  She explained—­what scarcely needed to be told—­that she felt faint:  she must go up-stairs.  In three minutes she had put her satin-slippered feet into a pair of water-proof overshoes, pinned up her trailing skirts, thrown on her long wadded mantle, with sleeves and hood, and had got down-stairs again before “assistance” could arrive.  All the time, there was a burning and tingling where his lips had been, but she would not put up her hand to touch the spot, and relieve the sensation.  It was, in a manner, sacred to her; albeit the sanctity was largely mingled with bewilderment, remorse, and fear.  When she came out, Bressant was standing where she had left him, tossing a couple of snow-balls from one hand to another.  He dropped them as she approached, and brushed the snow from his gloves.  She took the arm he offered her—­timidly, and yet feeling that it was all in the world she had to cling to.  It was true—­by that kiss she belonged to him, for it had made her a traitor to all else on whom she had hitherto had a claim.  Yet upon how different a footing did they stand with one another from that which she had prefigured to herself!  This was he whom she was to have brought vanquished to her feet!  With one motion of his strong, masculine hand he had swept away all her fine-spun cobwebs of opportunity and method, and had laid his clutch upon the very marrow of her soul.  But though she had lost the command, she was party, if not principal, to the guilt.  It was he who had taken fire from her.

“You remember last summer,” said he, “that night when an arch was in the sky?  We didn’t understand one another then, and I didn’t understand myself.  But, during the last day or two, I’ve been thinking it all over.  I’ve had too good an opinion of myself all along.”

“What is it that you’ve been thinking?” asked Cornelia, feeling repelled, and yet driven, by a piteous necessity, to know all the contents, good or bad, of this heart which was her only possession.

“Of all that had been said or done this last half-year.  There’s nothing you care for more than me, is there?” he demanded, concentrating the greatest emphasis into the question.