cruel?

A sort of recklessness seizes upon her. Well, if he doesn't know, he
shall know, though it be to the loss of her self-respect forever!

"Never," says she, leaning a little forward until the moonbeams gleam
upon her snowy neck and arms. "Never--never--until----"

The pause is premeditated. It is eloquence itself! The light of heaven
playing on her beautiful face betrays the passion of it--the rich
pallor! One hand resting on the back of the seat taps upon the iron
work, the other is now in Baltimore's possession.

"Until now----?" suggests he boldly. He is leaning over her. She shakes
her head. But in this negative there is only affirmation.

His hand tightens more closely upon hers. The long slender fingers yield
to his pressure--nay more--return it; they twine round his.

"If I thought----" begins he in a low, stammering tone--he moves nearer
to her, nearer still. Does she move toward him? There is a second's
hesitation on his part, and then, his lips meet hers!

It is but a momentary touch, a thing of an instant, but it includes a
whole world of meaning. Lady Swansdown has sprung to her feet, and is
looking at him with eyes that seem to burn through the mystic darkness.
She is trembling in every limb. Her nostrils are dilated. Her haughty
mouth is quivering, and there--are there honest, real tears in those
mocking eyes?

Baltimore, too, has risen. His face is very white, very full of
contrition. That he regrets his action toward her is unmistakable, but
that there is a deeper contrition behind--a sense of self-loathing not
to be appeased betrays itself in the anguish of his eyes. She had
accused him of falsity, most falsely up to this, but now--now----His
mind has wandered far away.

There is something so wild in his expression that Lady Swansdown loses
sight of herself in the contemplation of it.

"What is it, Baltimore?" asks she, in a low, frightened tone. It rouses
him.

"I have offended you beyond pardon," begins he, but more like one
seeking for words to say than one afraid of using them. "I have angered
you----"

"Do not mistake me," interrupts she quickly, almost fiercely. "I am not
angry. I feel no anger--nothing--but that I am a traitor."

"And what am I?"

"Work out your own condemnation for yourself," says she, still with that
feverish self-disdain upon her. "Don't ask me to help you. She was my
friend, whatever she is now. She trusted me, believed in me. And after
all----And you,