She gave a tragic gesture of eloquent despair.

“Oh, yes, I have to thank you!” she said, and her voice now vibrated with intense and passionate sorrow—­“I have to thank you for so much—­for so very much indeed!  You have been so kind and good!  Yes!  And you have never thought of yourself or your own pleasure at all—­but only of me!  And I have been as safe with you as in my mother’s arms, ... yes!—­you have been quite as careful of me as she was!” And a wan smile flitted over her agonised face—­ “All this I have to thank you for!—­but you have ruined me just the same—­not my body, but my soul!”

He looked at her,—­she returned his gaze unflinchingly with eyes that glowed like burning stars—­and he thought she was, as he put it to himself, “calming down.”  He laughed, a little uneasily.

“Soul is an unknown quantity,” he said—­“It doesn’t count.”

She seemed not to hear him.

“You have ruined my soul!” she repeated steadily—­“You have stolen it from God—­you have made it all your own—­for your ‘amusement’!  What remainder of life have you left to me?  Nothing!  I have no hope, no faith, no power to work—­no ambition to fulfil—­no dreams to realise!  You gave me love—­as I thought!—­and I lived; you take love from me, and I die!”

He bent his eyes upon her with a kind, almost condescending gentleness,—­his personal vanity was immense, and the utter humiliation of her love for him flattered the deep sense he had of his own value.

“Dear little goose, you will not die!” he said—­“For heaven’s sake have done with all this sentimental talk!—­I am not a man who can tolerate it.  You are such a pleasant creature when you are cheerful and self-possessed,—­so bright and clever and companionable—­and there is no reason why we shouldn’t make love to each other again as often as we like,—­but change and novelty are good for both of us.  Come!—­kiss me!—­be a good child—­and let us part friends!”

He approached her,—­there was a smile on his lips—­a smile in which lurked a suspicion of mockery as well as victorious self-satisfaction.  She saw it—­and swiftly there came swooping over her brain the horrible realisation of the truth—­that it was all over!—­that never, never again would she be able to dwell on the amorous looks and words and love-phrases of her “Amadis de Jocelyn!”—­that no happy future was in store for her with him—­ that he had no interest whatever in her cherished memories of Briar Farm, and that he would never care to accept the right of dwelling there even if she secured it for him,—­moreover, that he viewed her very work with indifference, and had no concern as to her name or fame—­so that everything—­every pretty fancy, every radiant hope, every happy possibility was at an end.  Life stretched before her dreary as the dreariest desert—­for her, whose nature was to love but once, there was no gleam of light in all the world’s cruel darkness!  A red mist swam before her eyes—­ black clouds seemed descending upon her and whirling round about her—­she looked wildly from right to left, as though seeking to escape from some invisible pursuer.  Startled at her expression Jocelyn tried to hold her—­but she shook him off.  She made a few unsteady steps along the floor.