“Something is wrong at present,” she said steadily; “but we can set it right.  I made a terrible mistake last night.  You must go away and forget all we said to each other.”

He looked at her incredulously.

“Explain,” he said.

She had to pause for a moment.  If it were but over!

“Pray believe what I say,” she answered, forming the words slowly and with difficulty.  “I found out last night after you had gone away that it was a mistake and a wrong—­that you could not marry me, nor I you.  Do you understand?”

“No, by heaven!” he cried.  “If this is a jest—­but it does not look like one.  Did you mean what you said last night?”

“Yes, yes.  I meant it then.  See, I am a true woman.  I have changed my mind already.”

There was a bitter tone of jesting now, for she caught at any means of keeping down the sobs which would rise in her throat.  He took her hand in a hard grasp.

“Look at me honestly and say what you mean; I am neither to be offended nor made a fool of.  I want to know why you make a promise one day and try to break it the next?”

She looked at him for a moment, and then let her eyes fall with a heavy sigh.

“I hoped you would have been satisfied,” she said, “to know that our engagement is broken; but it is true, you have a right to know more.  I told you last night that I had no fortune.  To-day I tell you that I have a portion you would never endure to receive with your wife, and which no man shall receive with me—­disgrace.”

She covered her face with her hands as she said the last word, and he could see nevertheless how the hot flush of shame rose to her forehead.  He started, and involuntarily moved a step away from her.  She was conscious of the movement, and raised her head proudly.

“How or in what way I should disgrace you,” she went on, “I need not tell you—­it is enough that you are satisfied that there is a bar between us.”  But he had recovered from his first surprise, and was in no mood to be so easily satisfied.

“You are mistaken,” he said.  “Disgrace is a terrible word; but how do I know that you are not frightening yourself and me with a shadow?  Be reasonable, Lucia; you are suffering, I can see.  Put aside this manner, which is so unlike yourself, and tell me what troubles you, and let me judge.”

“Oh, if I could!” she cried, with a passionate longing breaking through all her self-restraint.  She was trembling with excitement and the strain upon her nerves; and as she felt his arm put round her, it seemed for one second incredible that she must put its support away from her for ever.  But she conquered herself, and spoke more resolutely than before.

“It is no shadow that I fear, but a calamity which has fallen upon us.  I thought yesterday that I was not very far beneath you in birth, and that there could be no greater difficulties in our way than patience might overcome; but that was because I did not know.  I am not your equal.  I am no one’s equal in the world—­no one’s that I could marry.  I shall be always alone, and apart from other people in my heart, however they may see no difference; and if I cared for you a thousand times more than I do, I should only have a thousand more reasons for telling you to go away, and never think of me again.”