“That is where he goes,” said Helen, to herself.  “I knew it; he has seen her, and he loves her still.”

The conversation drifted on to other matters.  Beatrice passed all the gossip and scandal of the town under review for Lady Kynaston’s benefit; presently Maurice roused himself, and joined in the talk.  But Mrs. Romer uttered not a word; she sat in her place with a thunder-cloud upon her brow until the luncheon was over; then, as they rose from the table, she called her lover to her side.

“I want to speak to you,” she said, and detained him until the others had left the room.

“You knew that Vera Nevill was in town, and you have seen her!” she burst forth impetuously.

“If I had seen her, I do not know that it would signify, would it?” he answered, calmly.

“Not signify? when you knew that it was for your sake that she threw over John, because——­”

“Be silent, Helen, you have no right to say that, and no authority for such a statement,” he said, interrupting her hotly.

“Do you suppose you can deceive me?  Did not everybody see that she could not keep her eyes off you?  What is the use of denying it?  You have seen her probably; you have been with her to-day.”

“As it happens, I have not been with her either to-day or any day; nor did I know she was in town until Beatrice Miller told us so just now.”

“You have not seen her?”

“No, I have not.”

“I don’t believe you!” she answered, angrily.  Now, no man likes to be given the lie direct even by a lady; and Maurice was a man who was scrupulously truthful, and proud of his veracity; he lost his temper fairly.

“I have never told you a lie yet,” he began furiously; “and if you think so, it is time——­”

“Maurice!  Maurice!” she cried, frantically, stopping the outspoken words upon his lips, and seeing in one minute that she had gone too far.  “My darling, forgive me; I did not mean to say it.  Yes, of course, I believe you; don’t say anything unkind to me, for pity’s sake.  You know how much I love you; kiss me, darling.  No, Maurice, I won’t let you go till you kiss me, and say you forgive your foolish, jealous little Helen!”

It was the old story over again; angry reproaches—­bitter words—­insults upon her side; to be succeeded, the minute he turned round upon her, by wild cries of regret and entreaties for forgiveness, and by the pleading of that love which he valued so little.

She drove him wild with anger and indignation; but she never would let him go—­no, never, however much he might strain against the chain by which she held him.

The quarrel was patched up again; he stooped and kissed her.  A man must kiss a lady when she asks him.  How, indeed, is he to refuse to do so?  A woman’s kisses are the roses of life—­altogether sweet, and lovely, and precious.  No man can say he dislikes a rose, nor refuse so harmless and charming a gift when it is freely offered to him without absolute churlishness.  Maurice could not well deny her the embrace for which her upturned lips had pleaded.  He kissed her, indeed; but it will be easily understood that there was very little spontaneity of affection in that kiss.