or can I,' she answered. She rose and faced him, and in the patch of
moonlight in which she stood he could see that her tears at least were
real. 'What you have to say to me, in effect,' she said, with an air
of sudden quiet dignity, but with a quiver in her voice, 'is just this:
that I am a heartless coquette, and have never cared for you; that I
have wilfully lured you on to your own unhappiness. If you really
think that, Paul, if it means anything more than a mere passing gust
of temper, we had better say good-bye at once. I have at least an equal
right to bring the same charge against you, but I should disdain to
harbour such a thought about you. There are many ways in which you may
be cruel to a woman, Paul, and be forgiven, but you must not wound
her pride in that way. That is the cruellest stab of all. The blade is
poisoned, dear, and the wound will rankle for a lifetime.'

'Tell me,' he said, with his eyes blazing upon her, and the guarded
voice in which he spoke shaking--'tell me that you have really cared
for me; tell me, on your conscience and your honour, that you have not
deliberately led me to this madness.'

'You can ask me that? she said. 'You can insult me so?'

'I ask it,' he responded.

'If my conduct has not shown it clearly,' said Gertrude, 'it is quite in
vain to protest. I have given you better proof than words.'

'There is only one proof,' Paul answered. 'Are you strong enough to
brave the world with me?'

'No, no,' she whispered; 'you must not ask me that I am not afraid of
the world, but I am afraid of my own conscience.'

'Do you think,' he asked passionately, 'that love could not sanctify a
union such as ours? Be my Georges Sand, and I will be your De Musset; be
my Stella, and I will be your Swift.'

'You choose your instances unfortunately, Mr. Armstrong,' Gertrude
answered. 'Georges and Alfred lived to write vile and bitter books about
each other, and Stella broke her heart under the despotism of a brute. I
do not care for such a prospect.'

The 'Mr. Armstrong 'lashed him like an actual whip, and under the sting
of it he barely followed the meaning of what came after. He was so
staggered that he could only repeat the words:

'Mr. Armstrong.'

'You force me to my defence,' she answered gently. 'I am a woman, Paul;
but I have my code of honour.'

'Im Gott's und Teufel's namen,' he groaned, 'what is it? You give me
lips and arms; you have sworn you love me. What is loyalty?'

S