want of self-knowledge, you saw that I was destined to love you."

It was impossible to deny this fact. She had been well aware always of
his affection, and the certainty had given a peculiar emotional value to
every scene--no matter how commonplace--to every occasion, no matter how
crowded, to every conversation, no matter how trivial--in which he
figured or his name transpired. He and poor Marshire were the two men in
the world who really loved her. Marshire was the more desperate because
he was less intelligent and had fewer interests; Reckage loved her with
all the force of a selfish, vain, and spoilt nature. Such a passion she
knew was not especially noble and certainly not ideal. But it was
strong, and it made him submissive.

"Sara," he said, "you have got to help me." He put his arm round her
waist, and as she inclined her face ever so slightly toward his, he
kissed her cheek.

"How can I help you?" she asked.

"Let us marry."

"I don't wish to marry any one just yet, Beauclerk," she said; "I like
my liberty. I don't feel that I should make either a good wife, or a
contented one, as I am now. I want to see more and think more before I
give up my will to another."

"I would not ask you to give up your will."

"We should be utterly miserable if I didn't."

"Believe me, it is the weak, effeminate creature who wishes to control
women. Men of character respect women of character. These fellows who
declare that they will be masters in their own house are masters nowhere
else. I delight in your spirit. Orange and I have often agreed," he
added, with a searching look, "that you are the most brilliant girl in
England."

"Why do you quote Robert?" she said carelessly; "isn't your opinion
enough for me?"

"Can you pretend that his opinion has no weight with you?"

She laughed, and stroked his arm.

"My dear, why should I pretend anything? To tell the truth, I am
surprised that Orange has noticed me. I saw Mrs. Parflete to-day. I
understand his infatuation."

"I have always told you that she was a very pretty woman. But why is it
that, no matter where we start, we always come back to Orange? I am
getting sick of him. I dislike being _affiche_, as it were, to some one
else. This marriage of his pursues me. If I go into a club, if I dine,
if I ride, if I walk--ten to one if I am not pelted with questions
about Mrs. Parflete, or Robert's history, or his genius, or his future
plans. I must drop him."

"Drop h