as been said that Miltoun's face was not unhandsome; for Audrey Noel
at this moment when his eyes were so near hers, and his lips touching
her, he was transfigured, and had become the spirit of all beauty. And
she, with heart beating fast against him, her eyes, half closing from
delight, and her hair asking to be praised with its fragrance, her
cheeks fainting pale with emotion, and her arms too languid with
happiness to embrace him--she, to him, was the incarnation of the woman
that visits dreams.

So passed that moment.

The bee ended it; who, impatient with flowers that hid their honey so
deep, had entangled himself in Audrey's hair. And then, seeing that
words, those dreaded things, were on his lips, she tried to kiss them
back. But they came:

"When will you marry me?"

It all swayed a little. And with marvellous rapidity the whole position
started up before her. She saw, with preternatural insight, into its
nooks and corners. Something he had said one day, when they were talking
of the Church view of marriage and divorce, lighted all up. So he had
really never known about her! At this moment of utter sickness, she was
saved from fainting by her sense of humour--her cynicism. Not content to
let her be, people's tongues had divorced her; he had believed them! And
the crown of irony was that he should want to marry her, when she felt
so utterly, so sacredly his, to do what he liked with sans forms or
ceremonies. A surge of bitter feeling against the man who stood between
her and Miltoun almost made her cry out. That man had captured her
before she knew the world or her own soul, and she was tied to him,
till by some beneficent chance he drew his last breath when her hair was
grey, and her eyes had no love light, and her cheeks no longer grew pale
when they were kissed; when twilight had fallen, and the flowers, and
bees no longer cared for her.

It was that feeling, the sudden revolt of the desperate prisoner, which
steeled her to put out her hand, take up the paper, and give it to
Miltoun.

When he had read the little paragraph, there followed one of those
eternities which last perhaps two minutes.

He said, then:

"It's true, I suppose?" And, at her silence, added: "I am sorry."

This queer dry saying was so much more terrible than any outcry, that
she remained, deprived even of the power of breathing, with her eyes
still fixed on Miltoun's face.

The smile of the old Cardinal had come up there, and wa