seeing you," he answered promptly. "The servant who opened the
door to me informed me that you and Madame Bernstein had departed for
Paris. You may imagine my surprise."

"But if you were there within an hour of our leaving, what train did
you catch?" she inquired, with a simplicity that could scarcely have
failed to entrap him.

"The eleven o'clock express from Charing Cross _via_ Dover and Calais,"
he replied.

"You admit, then, that your important business in Paris was to follow
us?" she answered, and as she said it Browne realised what a mistake he
had made. She rose without another word, and made as if she would
leave the Gardens. Browne also sprang to his feet, and laid his hand
upon her arm as if to detain her.

"Again I fear I have offended you," he said; "but believe me, I had not
the least intention of doing so. I think at least you should know me
well enough for that."

"But you should not have followed me at all," she said, her womanly wit
showing her that if she wished to escape she must beg the question and
attack the side issue. "It was not kind of you."

"Not kind?" he cried. "But why should it not be? I cannot see that I
have done anything wrong; and, even if I have, will you not be
merciful?"

Large tears had risen in her eyes; her manner was firm, nevertheless.
It seemed to Browne later on, when he recalled all that had happened on
that memorable morning, as if two emotions, pride and love, were
struggling in her breast for the mastery.

"Will you not forgive me?" he asked, more humbly than he had probably
ever spoken to a human being in his life before.

"If you will promise not to repeat the offence," she replied, with a
feeble attempt at a smile. "Remember, if I _do_ forgive you, I shall
expect you to adhere to your word."

"You do not know how hard it is for me to promise," said Browne; "but
since you wish it, I will do as you desire. I promise you I will not
follow you again."

"I thank you," she answered, and held out her hand. "I must go now, or
madame will be wondering what has become of me. Good-bye, Mr. Browne."

"But do you mean that I am never to see you again?" he inquired in
consternation.

"For the moment that is a question I cannot answer," she replied. "I
have told you before that my time is not my own; nor do I know how long
we shall remain in Paris."

"But if I am to promise this, will you not promise _me_ something in
return?" he asked, with a tremb