once?" said Rex, flushing, and with more spirit in his voice, as if
he too were capable of being angry.

Gwendolen looked round at him and smiled. "Treat you? Nonsense! I am
only rather cross. Why did you come so very early? You must expect to
find tempers in dishabille."

"Be as cross with me as you like--only don't treat me with
indifference," said Rex, imploringly. "All the happiness of my life
depends on your loving me--if only a little--better than any one else."

He tried to take her hand, but she hastily eluded his grasp and moved
to the other end of the hearth, facing him.

"Pray don't make love to me! I hate it!" she looked at him fiercely.

Rex turned pale and was silent, but could not take his eyes off her,
and the impetus was not yet exhausted that made hers dart death at him.
Gwendolen herself could not have foreseen that she should feel in this
way. It was all a sudden, new experience to her. The day before she had
been quite aware that her cousin was in love with her; she did not mind
how much, so that he said nothing about it; and if any one had asked
her why she objected to love-making speeches, she would have said,
laughingly, "Oh I am tired of them all in the books." But now the life
of passion had begun negatively in her. She felt passionately averse to
this volunteered love.

To Rex at twenty the joy of life seemed at an end more absolutely than
it can do to a man at forty. But before they had ceased to look at each
other, he did speak again.

"Is that last word you have to say to me, Gwendolen? Will it always be
so?"

She could not help seeing his wretchedness and feeling a little regret
for the old Rex who had not offended her. Decisively, but yet with some
return of kindness, she said--

"About making love? Yes. But I don't dislike you for anything else."

There was just a perceptible pause before he said a low "good-bye." and
passed out of the room. Almost immediately after, she heard the heavy
hall door bang behind him.

Mrs. Davilow, too, had heard Rex's hasty departure, and presently came
into the drawing-room, where she found Gwendolen seated on the low
couch, her face buried, and her hair falling over her figure like a
garment. She was sobbing bitterly. "My child, my child, what is it?"
cried the mother, who had never before seen her darling struck down in
this way, and felt something of the alarmed anguish that women, feel at
the sight of overpowering sorrow in a strong man; f