She suddenly leans back from him, and looks fair in his eyes.

“It is, it is,” says she hoarsely.  “I can’t again go through what I suffered before.  Wait, do wait—­something—­something will happen——­”

“You refuse me?” says he, in a lifeless tone.

“Not that.  Don’t speak like that.  Don’t leave me, Maurice.”

“It is our last hour,” says he deliberately.  “Be sure of that.  If money is so much to you—­if money counts so far beyond all that a man can give you of his heart and soul—­then take it.”

“And you,” says she, “are you not seeking money, too?  This girl, this little fool; your mother has led you to think of her.  You will marry her!”

“I will marry you,” says he coldly, “if you will marry me.”

“I have told you that it is impossible”—­she draws a deep breath—­“at present.”

“You will not trust me, then, to make a fortune for you?”

“A fortune!  It takes so long to make; and,” smiling, and drawing nearer to him, and suddenly flinging her arms around his neck, “are we not happy as we are?”

“No.”  He loosens her arms lightly, and, still holding them, looks at her.  How fair she is, how desirable!  “Marian,” says he hoarsely, “think!  It is indeed my last word.  Will you trust yourself to me as things are, or will you reject me?  Marian, say you will marry me as I now am—­poor, ruined.”

He holds her, gazing at her despairingly.  She would have spoken, perhaps, but no words come to her; no words to soften her grim determination.  She will not marry him poor—­and yet she loves him.

Rylton, with a stifled oath, pushes her from him.

“This is the end,” says he.

He goes to the door.

“Maurice!” says she faintly.

He turns.

“Well, will you marry me to-morrow?” asks he mockingly.

“No.  But——­”

“There is no time for ‘buts,’” says he.

He opens the door and closes it sharply behind him.

Mrs. Bethune flings herself back into a chair, and presses her handkerchief to her face.

“Oh, it is nothing, nothing,” says she presently.  She gets up, and, standing before a glass, arranges her hair and presses her eyebrows into shape.  “He gets impatient, that is all.  He will never be able to live without me.  As for that absurd child, Maurice would not look at her.  No, I am sure of him, quite, quite sure; to-morrow he will come back to me, repentant.”

CHAPTER IX.

HOW MAURICE PLACES HIS LIFE IN THE HANDS OF THE HOYDEN, AND HOW SHE TELLS HIM MANY THINGS, AND DESIRES MANY THINGS OF HIM.

Maurice had said it was his last word.  He goes straight from Marian Bethune to one of the reception-rooms, called the lesser ballroom, where some dancing is going on.  His face is a little white, but beyond that he betrays no emotion whatever.  He feels even surprised at himself.  Has he lost all feeling?  Passing Randal Gower he whispers a gay word or two to him.  He feels in brilliant spirits.