“Is it John for whom you are speaking, or for yourself?” he asked, looking at her.

“For both of us.  Of course it will be a great disappointment if you are not there.  You are his only brother, and he will feel it deeply.”

“And you; will you feel it?” he persisted.  She coloured a little.

“Yes, I shall be very sorry,” she answered, nervously.  “I should not like John to be vexed on his wedding-day; he has been a kind brother to you, Maurice, and it seems hard that you cannot do this little thing to show your sense of it.”

“Believe me, I show my gratitude to my brother just as well in staying away as in remaining,” he answered, earnestly.  “Do not urge me any further, Vera; I would do anything in the world to please John, but I cannot be present at your wedding.”

There was a moment’s silence; the fire flickered up merrily between them; a red-hot cinder fell out noisily from the grate; the clock ticked steadily on the chimney-piece; the little terrier sniffed at the edge of Vera’s dress.

Suddenly there came into her heart a wild desire to know, to eat for once of that forbidden fruit of the tree of Eden, whence the flaming swords in vain beckoned her back; to eat, and afterwards, perchance, to perish of the poisonous food.

A wild conflict of thought thronged into her soul.  Prudence, wisdom, her very heart itself counselled her to be still and to go.  But something stronger than all else was within her too; and something that was new and strange, and perilously sweet to her; a something that won the day.

She turned to him, stretching out her hands; the warm glow of the fire lit up her lovely face and her eloquent pleading eyes, and flickered over the graceful and beautiful figure, whose perfect outlines haunted his fancy for ever.

“Stay, for my sake, because I ask you!” she cried, with a sudden passion; “or else tell me why you must go.”

There came no answering flash into his eyes, only he lowered them beneath hers; he sat down suddenly, as though he was weary, on the chair whence he had risen at her entrance, so that she stood before him, looking down at him.

There was a certain repression in his face which made him look stern and cold, as one who struggles with a mortal temptation.  He stooped over the little dog, and became seemingly engrossed in stroking it.

“I cannot stop,” he said, in a cold, measured voice; “it is an impossibility.  But, since you ask me, I will tell you why.  It can make no possible difference to you to know; it may, indeed, excite your interest or your pity for a few moments whilst you listen to me; but when it is over and you go away you will forget it again.  I do not ask you to remember it or me; it is, in fact, all I ask, that you should forget.  This is what it is.  Your wedding-day is very near; it is bringing you happiness and love.  I can rejoice in your happiness.