e had never yielded.
It was always the same argument, she would not ruin _him_. But one
day--only the other day, indeed--she had said something that made
him know she sometimes counted on his uncle's death. She would marry
him then! She would not marry a poor man, however much she loved
him. The thought that she was waiting for his uncle's death revolted
him at the moment, and though he forgave her afterwards, still the
thought rankled.

It hurt him, in a sense, that she could _desire_ death--the death of
another--to create her own content.

His mother had hinted at it only just now! Marian feared, she
said--feared to step aboard his sinking ship. Where, then, was her
love, that perfect love that casteth out all fear?

A wave of anger rushes over him as he looks at her now--smiling,
fair, with large, deep, gleaming eyes. He tells himself he will know
at once what it is she means--what is the worth of her love.

She is leaning towards him, a soft red rosebud crushed against her
lips.

"Ah, yes! It is true. I _did_ know you were coming," says she
tenderly.

She gives a hasty, an almost imperceptible glance around. Lady
Rylton is often a little--just a _little_--prone to
prying--especially of late; ever since the arrival of that small
impossible heiress, for example; and then very softly she slips her
hand into his.

"What an evening!" says she with delicate fervour. "How sweet, how
perfect, Maurice!"

"Well?" in a rather cold, uncompromising way.

Mrs. Bethune gives him a quick glance.

"What a tone!" says she; "you frighten me!"

She laughs softly, sweetly. She draws closer to him--closer
still;--and, laying her cheek against his arm, rubs it lightly,
caressingly, up and down.

"Look here!" says he quickly, catching her by both arms, and holding
her a little away from him; "I have a question to ask you."

"There is always a question," says she, smiling still, "between
friends and foes, then why not between--_lovers?"_

She lingers over the word, and, stooping her graceful head, runs her
lips lightly across the hand that is holding her right arm.

A shiver runs through Rylton. Is she true or false? But, however it
goes, how exquisite she is!

"And now your question," says she; "how slow you are to ask it. Now
_what_ is it?--what--what?"

"Shall I ask it, Marian? I have asked it too often before."

He is holding her arms very tightly now, and his eyes are bent on
hers. Once again he is under the s