She did not move—­she scarcely seemed to breathe.

“That is why I told you it would be a good thing for you if you accepted Lord Blythe’s offer,—­in his great position he would be able to marry you well to some rich fellow with a title”—­he went on, easily.  “Now I am not a marrying man.  Domestic bliss would not suit me.  I have sometimes thought it would hardly suit you!”

She stirred slightly, as though some invisible creature had touched her, and held up one little trembling hand.

“Stop!” she said, and her voice though faint was clear and steady —­“Do you think—­can you imagine that I am of so low and common a nature as to marry any man, after—­” She paused, struggling with herself.

“After what?” he queried, smilingly.

She shuddered, as with keenest cold.

“After your kisses!” she answered—­“After your embraces which have held me away from everything save you!—­After your caresses—­oh God!—­after all this,—­do you think I would shame my body and perjure my soul by giving myself to another man?”

He almost laughed at her saintly idea of a lover’s chastity.

“Every woman would!” he declared—­“And I’m sure every woman does!”

She looked straight before her into vacancy.

“I am not ‘every woman,’” she said, slowly—­“I am only one unhappy girl!”

He was still dabbing colour on his canvas, but now threw down his brush and came to her.

“Dear child, why be tragic?” he said—­“Life is such a pleasant thing and holds so much for both of us!  I shall always love you—­ if you’re good!” and he laughed, pleasantly—­“and you can always love me—­if you like!  But I cannot marry you—­I have never thought of such a thing!  Marriage would not suit me at all.  I know, of course, what you would like.  You would like a grand wedding with lots of millinery and presents, and then a honeymoon at your old Briar Farm—­in fact, I daresay you’d like to buy Briar Farm and imprison me there for life, along with the dust and ashes of my ancestor’s long-lost brother—­but I shouldn’t like it!  No, child! —­not even you, attractive as you are, could turn me into a Farmer Jocelyn!”

He tried to take her in his arms, but she drew herself back from him.

“You speak truly,” she said, in a measured, lifeless tone—­ “Nothing could turn you into a Farmer Jocelyn.  For he was an honest man!”

He winced as though a whip had struck him, and an ugly frown darkened his features.

“He would not have hurt a dog that trusted him,” she went on in the same monotonous way—­“He would not have betrayed a soul that loved him!”

All at once the unnatural rigidity of her face broke up into piteous, terrible weeping, and she flung herself at his feet.

“Amadis, Amadis!” she cried.  “It is not—­it cannot be you who are so cruel!—­no, no!—­it is some devil that speaks to me—­not you, not you, my love, my heart!  Oh, say it isn’t true!—­say it isn’t true!  Have mercy—­mercy!  I love you, I love you!  You are all my life!—­I cannot live without you!  Amadis!”