“Because I have something to say to you,” she answered, looking straight in front of her.

“Before you say it, one question occurs to me.  You are dressed in black; you are in mourning for Sir Cyril, your father, who is not even buried.  And yet you told me just now that you were paying a mere visit of etiquette to my cousin Emmeline.  Is it usual in Paris for ladies in mourning to go out paying calls?  But perhaps you had a special object in calling on Emmeline.”

“I had,” she replied at once with dignity, “and I did not wish you to know.”

“What was it?”

“Really, Mr. Foster—­”

“‘Mr. Foster!’”

“Yes; I won’t call you Carl any more.  I have made a mistake, and it is as well you should hear of it now.  I can’t love you.  I have misunderstood my feelings.  What I feel for you is gratitude, not love.  I want you to forget me.”

She was pale and restless.

“Rosa!” I exclaimed warningly.

“Yes,” she continued urgently and feverishly, “forget me.  I may seem cruel, but it is best there should be no beating about the bush.  I can’t love you.”

“Rosa!” I repeated.

“Go back to London,” she went on.  “You have ambitions.  Fulfil them.  Work at your profession.  Above all, don’t think of me.  And always remember that though I am very grateful to you, I cannot love you—­never!”

“That isn’t true, Rosa!” I said quietly.  “You have invited me into this carriage simply to lie to me.  But you are an indifferent liar—­it is not your forte.  My dear child, do you imagine that I cannot see through your poor little plan?  Mrs. Sullivan Smith has been talking to you, and it has occurred to you that if you cast me off, the anger of that—­that thing may be appeased, and I may be saved from the fate that overtook Alresca.  You were calling on Emmeline to ask her advice finally, as she appears to be mixed up in this affair.  Then, on seeing me, you decided all of a sudden to take your courage in both hands, and dismiss me at once.  It was heroic of you, Rosa; it was a splendid sacrifice of your self-respect.  But it can’t be.  Nothing is going to disturb my love.  If I die under some mysterious influence, then I die; but I shall die loving you, and I shall die absolutely certain that you love me.”

Her breast heaved, and under the carriage rug her hand found mine and clasped it.  We did not look at each other.  In a thick voice I called to the coachman to stop.  I got out, and the vehicle passed on.  If I had stayed with her, I should have wept in sight of the whole street.

I ate no dinner that evening, but spent the hours in wandering up and down the long verdurous alleys in the neighborhood of the Arc de Triomphe.  I was sure of Rosa’s love, and that thought gave me a certain invigoration.  But to be sure of a woman’s love when that love means torture and death to you is not a complete and perfect happiness.  No, my heart was full of bitterness and despair, and my mind invaded by a miserable weakness.  I pitied myself, and at the same time I scorned myself.  After all, the ghost had no actual power over me; a ghost cannot stab, cannot throttle, cannot shoot.  A ghost can only act upon the mind, and if the mind is feeble enough to allow itself to be influenced by an intangible illusion, then—­