blush throbbed fiercely through every vein
and gradually died away.

He let her go at last very slowly. "I--see," he said.

She put her hands up over her face with a childish, piteous gesture. She
felt as if he had ruthlessly torn from her the one secret treasure that
she cherished. She was free--she knew she was free. But at what a cost!

"So," Eustace said, "that's it, is it? We've got at the truth at last!"

She quivered at the words. Her whole being seemed to be shrivelled as
though it had passed through the fire. He had wrenched her secret from
her, and she had nothing more to hide.

Sir Eustace walked to the end of the room and back. He halted close to
her, but he did not touch her. He spoke, briefly and sternly.

"How long has this been going on?"

She looked up at him, her face pathetically pinched and small. "It hasn't
been going on. I--only realized it to-day. He doesn't know. He never must
know!" A sudden sharp note of anxiety sounded in her voice. "He never
must know!" she reiterated with emphasis.

"He hasn't made love to you then?" Sir Eustace spoke in the same curt
tone; his mouth was merciless.

She started as if stung. "Oh no! Oh no! Of course he hasn't! He--he
doesn't care for me--like that. Why should he?"

Eustace's grim lips twitched a little. "Why indeed? Well, it's lucky for
him he hasn't. If he had, I'd have half killed him for it!"

There was concentrated savagery in his tone. His eyes shone with a fire
that made her shrink. And then very suddenly he put his hand upon her
shoulder.

"Do you mean to tell me that you want to throw me over solely because you
imagine you care for a man who doesn't care for you?" he asked.

She looked up at him piteously, "Oh, please don't ask me any more!" she
said.

"But I want to know," he said stubbornly. "Is that your only reason?"

With difficulty she answered him. "No."

"Then what more?" he demanded.

It was inevitable. She made a desperate effort to be brave. "I couldn't
be happy with you. I am afraid of you. And--and--you are not kind to--to
Isabel."

"Who says I am not kind to Isabel?" His hand pressed upon her ominously;
his look was implacably stern.

But the effort to be brave had given her strength. She stiffened in his
hold. "I know it," she said. "I have seen it. She is always miserable
when you are there."

He frowned upon her heavily. "You don't understand. Isabel is very
hysterical. She needs a firm hand."

"You are more