“Take the hand then first.  When it and all that it holds are your own, you can help yourself as you list.”  So saying, she stood before him with her right hand stretched out towards him.

What man will say that he would not have been tempted?  Or what woman will declare that such temptation should have had no force?  The very air of the room in which she dwelt was sweet in his nostrils, and there hovered around her an halo of grace and beauty which greeted all his senses.  She invited him to join his lot to hers, in order that she might give to him all that was needed to make his life rich and glorious.  How would the Ratlers and the Bonteens envy him when they heard of the prize which had become his!  The Cantrips and the Greshams would feel that he was a friend doubly valuable, if he could be won back; and Mr. Monk would greet him as a fitting ally,—­an ally strong with the strength which he had before wanted.  With whom would he not be equal?  Whom need he fear?  Who would not praise him?  The story of his poor Mary would be known only in a small village, out beyond the Channel.  The temptation certainly was very strong.

But he had not a moment in which to doubt.  She was standing there with her face turned from him, but with her hand still stretched towards him.  Of course he took it.  What man so placed could do other than take a woman’s hand?

“My friend,” he said.

“I will be called friend by you no more,” she said.  “You must call me Marie, your own Marie, or you must never call me by any name again.  Which shall it be, sir?” He paused a moment, holding her hand, and she let it lie there for an instant while she listened.  But still she did not look at him.  “Speak to me!  Tell me!  Which shall it be?” Still he paused.  “Speak to me.  Tell me!” she said again.

“It cannot be as you have hinted to me,” he said at last.  His words did not come louder than a low whisper; but they were plainly heard, and instantly the hand was withdrawn.

“Cannot be!” she exclaimed.  “Then I have betrayed myself.”

“No;—­Madame Goesler.”

“Sir; I say yes!  If you will allow me I will leave you.  You will, I know, excuse me if I am abrupt to you.”  Then she strode out of the room, and was no more seen of the eyes of Phineas Finn.

He never afterwards knew how he escaped out of that room and found his way into Park Lane.  In after days he had some memory that he remained there, he knew not how long, standing on the very spot on which she had left him; and that at last there grew upon him almost a fear of moving, a dread lest he should be heard, an inordinate desire to escape without the sound of a footfall, without the clicking of a lock.  Everything in that house had been offered to him.  He had refused it all, and then felt that of all human beings under the sun none had so little right to be standing there as he.  His very presence in that drawing-room was an insult to the woman whom he had driven from it.