It had cost him an immense effort to say these words, and he expected, fondly expected, I must admit, to see her colour change and her head droop.  But instead of this she looked at him steadily for a moment, then slipped her hand down his arm till she reached his palm, which she pressed with sudden warmth, drawing him into the room as she did so, and shutting the door behind them.  He was speechless, for she never had looked so handsome or so glowing.  Instead of showing depression or humiliation even, she confronted him with a smile more dangerous than any display of grief, for it contained what it had hitherto lacked, positive and irresistible admiration.  Her words were equally dangerous.

“I kiss your hand, as the Spaniards say.”  And she almost did so, with a bend of her head, which just allowed him to catch a glimpse of two startling dimples.

He was astounded.  He thought he knew this woman well, but at this moment she was as incomprehensible to him as if he had never made a study of her caprices and sought an explanation for her ever-shifting expressions.

“I am sensible of the honour,” said he, “but hardly understand how I have earned it.”

Still that incomprehensible look of admiration continued to illumine her face.

“I did not know I could ever think so well of you,” she declared.  “If you do not take care, I shall end by loving you some day.”

“Ah!” he ejaculated, his face contracting with sudden pain; “your love, then, is but a potentiality.  Very well, Amabel, keep it so and you will be spared much misery.  As for me, who have not been as wise as you—–­”

“Frederick!” She had come so near he did not have the strength to finish.  Her face, with its indefinable charm, was raised to his, as she dropped these words one by one from her lips in lingering cadence:  “Frederick—­do you love me, then, so very much?”

He was angry; possibly because he felt his resolution failing him.  “You know!” he hotly began, stepping back.  Then with a sudden burst of feeling, that was almost like prayer, he resumed:  “Do not tempt me, Amabel.  I have trouble enough, without lamenting the failure of my first steadfast purpose.”

“Ah!” she said, stopping where she was, but drawing him toward her by every witchery of which her mobile features were capable; “your generous impulse has strengthened into a purpose, has it?  Well, I’m not worth it, Frederick.”

More and more astounded, understanding her less than ever, but charmed by looks that would have moved an anchorite, he turned his head away in a vain attempt to escape an influence that was so rapidly undermining his determination.

She saw the movement, recognised the weakness it bespoke, and in the triumph of her heart allowed a low laugh to escape her.

Her voice, as I have before said, was unmusical though effective; but her laugh was deliciously sweet, especially when it was restrained to a mere ripple, as now.