omen will
marry for a home they all will. I trust I have explained to your
satisfaction, Mr Beecham. Ha ha ha!"

The jealous rage had died out of his face and was succeeded by trembling
and a pallor so ghastly, that I began to have a little faith in
descriptions of love which I had hitherto ridiculed.

"Are you in earnest?" he asked in a deadly calm voice.

"Most emphatically I am."

"Then all I can say is that I haven't much respect for you, Miss Melvyn.
I always considered that there were three classes of women--one, that
would marry a blackfellow if he had money; another, that were shameless
flirts, and who amuse themselves by flirting and disgracing the name of
woman; and a third class that were pure and true, on whom a man could
stake his life and whom he could worship. I thought you belonged to this
class, but I have been mistaken. I know you always try to appear
heartless and worthless, but I fancied it was only your youth and
mischief, and imagined you were good underneath; but I have been
mistaken," he repeated with quiet contempt.

His face had regained its natural colour, and the well-cut pleasant
mouth, clearly seen beneath the soft drooping moustache, had hardened
into a sullen line which told me he would never be first to seek
reconciliation--not even to save his life.

"Bah!" I exclaimed sarcastically. "It appears that we all labour under
delusions. Go and get a beautiful woman to wear your ring and your name.
One that will be able to say yes and no at the right time; one who will
know how to dress properly; one who wouldn't for the world do anything
that other women did not also; one who will know where to buy the best
groceries and who will readily sell herself to you for your wealth.
That's the sort of woman that suits men, and there are plenty of them;
procure one, and don't bother with me. I am too small and silly, and
have nothing to recommend me. I fear it speaks little for your sense or
taste that you ever thought of me. Ta-ta, Mr Beecham," I said over my
shoulder with a mocking smile, and walked away.

When about half-way down the orchard reflection pulled me up shortly
under an apple-tree.

I had said what I had said because, feeling bitter for the want of love,
and because full of pain myself, I rejoiced with a sort of revenge to see
the same feeling flash across another's face. But now I was cool, and,
forgetting myself, thought of Harold.

I had led him on because his perpetually c