own me tenderness, and once
it had seemed as though a passing shadow of remorse had shot across her
brightness. Putting out my hands, I took both of hers again, and so
looked up in her face, dumbly beseeching her; a smile quivered on her
lips as she shook her head at me.

"Heaven keeps you for better things," she said.

"I'd be the judge of them myself," I cried, and I sought to carry her
hands to my lips.

"Let me go," she said; "Simon, you must let me go. Nay, you must. So!
Sit there, and I'll sit opposite to you."

She did as she said, seating herself over against me, although quite
close. She looked me in the face. Presently she gave a little sigh.

"Won't you leave me now?" she asked with a plaintive smile.

I shook my head, but made no other answer.

"I'm sorry," she went on softly, "that I came to Hatchstead; I'm sorry
that I brought you to London, that I met you in the Lane, that I brought
you here to-day. I didn't guess your folly. I've lived with players, and
with courtiers, and with--with one other; so I didn't dream of such
folly as yours. Yes, I'm sorry."

"You can give me joy infinitely greater than any sorrow I've had by
you," said I in a low voice.

On this she sat silent for a full minute, seeming to study my face. Then
she looked to right and left, as though she would fain have escaped. She
laughed a little, but grew grave again, saying, "I don't know why I
laughed," and sighing heavily. I watched every motion and change in her,
waiting for her to speak again. At last she spoke.

"You won't be angry with me, Simon?" she asked coaxingly.

"Why, no," I answered, wondering.

"Nor run quite mad, nor talk of death, nor any horrors?"

"I'll hear all you say calmly," I answered.

She sat looking at me in a whimsical distress, seeming to deprecate
wrath and to pray my pardon yet still to hint amusement deep-hidden in
her mind. Then she drew herself up, and a strange and most pitiful
pride appeared on her face. I did not know the meaning of it. She leant
forward towards me, blushing a little, and whispered my name.

"I'm waiting to hear you," said I; my voice came hard, stern, and cold.

"You'll be cruel to me, I know you will," she cried petulantly.

"On my life, no," said I. "What is it you want to say?"

She was like a child who shows you some loved forbidden toy that she
should not have, but prizes above all her trifles; there was that sly
joy, that ashamed exultation in her face.

"I