Eve broke in impatiently.

“I told you in the letter that I had no hope of it.  It’s your mistake to think me a crafty, plotting, selfish woman.  I’m only a very miserable one—­it went on from this to that, and I meant nothing.  I didn’t scheme; I was only tempted into foolishness.  I felt myself getting into difficulties that would be my ruin, but I hadn’t strength to draw back.”

“You do yourself injustice,” said Hilliard, coldly.  “For the past month you have acted a part before me, and acted it well.  You seemed to be reconciling yourself to my prospects, indifferent as they were.  You encouraged me—­talked with unusual cheerfulness—­ showed a bright face.  If this wasn’t deliberate acting what did it mean?”

“Yes, it was put on,” Eve admitted, after a pause.  “But I couldn’t help that.  I was obliged to keep seeing you, and if I had looked as miserable as I felt——­” She broke off.  “I tried to behave just like a friend.  You can’t charge me with pretending—­anything else.  I could be your friend:  that was honest feeling.”

“It’s no use to me.  I must have more, or nothing.”

The flood of passion surged in him again.  Some trick of her voice, or some indescribable movement of her head—­the trifles which are all-powerful over a man in love—­beat down his contending reason.

“You say,” he continued, “that you will make amends for your unfair dealing.  If you mean it, take the only course that shows itself.  Confess to Narramore what you have done; you owe it to him as much as to me.”

“I can’t do that,” said Eve, drawing away.  “It’s for you to tell him —­if you like.”

“No.  I had my opportunity, and let it pass.  I don’t mean that you are to inform him of all there has been between us; that’s needless.  We have agreed to forget everything that suggests the word I hate.  But that you and I have been lovers and looked—­I, at all events —­to be something more, this you must let him know.”

“I can never do that.”

“Without it, how are you to disentangle yourself?”

“I promise you he shall see no more of me.”

“Such a promise is idle, and you know it.  Remember, too, that Narramore and I are friends.  He will speak to me of you, and I can’t play a farce with him.  It would be intolerable discomfort to me, and grossly unfair to him.  Do, for once, the simple, honourable thing, and make a new beginning.  After that, be guided by your own interests.  Assuredly I shall not stand in your way.”

Eve had turned her eyes in the direction of crowd and bustle.  When she faced Hilliard again, he saw that she had come to a resolve.

“There’s only one way out of it for me,” she said impulsively.  “I can’t talk any longer.  I’ll write to you.”

She moved from him; Hilliard followed.  At a distance of half-a-dozen yards, just as he was about to address her again, she stopped and spoke—­