“And yet I did take her money,” says he miserably; “I wish to heaven now I hadn’t. Then it seemed a fair exchange—­her money for my title; it is done every day, and no one thinks anything of it—­but now——­ It was a most cursed thing,” says he.

“It would have been nothing—­nothing,” says Margaret eagerly, “if you had been heart-whole.  But to marry her, loving another, that was wrong—­unpardonable——­”

“Unpardonable!” He looks at her with a start.  What does she mean?  Is he beyond pardon, indeed?  Pardon from——­ “That’s all over,” says he.

“It wasn’t over then!"

“I don’t know——­” He gets up and walks to the window in an agitated fashion, and then back again.  “Margaret, I don’t believe I ever loved her.”

Margaret stares at him.

“You are talking of Marian?”

“Yes; Marian.  If I did love her, then there is no such thing as love—­love the eternal—­because I love her no longer.”

“It is not that,” says Margaret; “but love can be killed.  Poor love!” she sighed.  “Marian of her own accord has killed yours.”

There is a long pause; then:  “Well, I’m glad of it,” says he.

He lifts his arms high above his head, as a man might who yawns, or a man might who has all at once recognised that he is rid of a great encumbrance.

“I suppose you did not come here to discuss your love affairs with Marian,” says Margaret, a little coldly.

In a strange sort of way she had liked Marian, and she knew that Marian, in a strange sort of way, clung to her.  And, besides, to say love could be killed!  It was tantamount to saying love could die!  Has her love died?  Colonel Neilson had been with her a good deal since her return to town, and there had been moments of heart-burning, when she had searched her heart indeed, and found it wanting—­wanting in its fixed determination to be true for ever to the dear dead beloved.  And such a miserable wanting, a mere craving to be as others are—­to live in the life of another, to know the warmth, the breath of the world’s sunshine—­to love, and be loved again.

No wonder Margaret is angry with Rylton for bringing all these delinquencies into the light of certainty.

“No,” says Sir Maurice moodily.  “I came here to see you.”

“You told me you intended leaving town yesterday.”

“Yes, I know.  I meant it.  But I’ve changed my mind about stopping in the country—­at least, I’m running down to The Place for the night to see after some business with the agent, but I’ll be back to-morrow.”

“Really, you must forgive me if I say I don’t think much of your mind,” says Margaret, who is still a little sore over her own reflections.

“I don’t think much of it myself,” says Rylton, with increasing gloom.

At this abject surrender Margaret’s tender heart relents.

“I believe all you have told me,” says she; “and I suppose I’m glad of it, although—­Well, never mind that.  Marian deserves no pity, but still——­”