"I'm not likely to despise you for it, Luce," he said. As he spoke, Lady Chesney came out onto the terrace. She looked up and down, saw the two figures standing together, and, with a smile, returned to the house.
"No; you are too generous for that, Drake; even if I—I confess that I have not spent one happy—oh, the word is a mockery!—that I have been wretched since the hour I—I left you."
His face grew grave, almost stern.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "Candidly, I didn't think——"
"No, I know! You thought that I only cared for you because——You told me that I was heartless and mercenary, you remember, Drake. But, ah; it wasn't true! Yes, I've been brought up at a bad school. I've been taught that it's a sacred duty for every girl, as poor as I am, to make a good match; and I thought—see how frank I am!—that I could part from you, oh, not easily, but without breaking my heart. But I—I was mistaken! I miss you so dreadfully! There is not another man in the world I can care for, or even dream of caring for."
"Hush!" he said sternly.
There was always something impressive about Drake, a touch of the manliness which is somewhat rare nowadays, the manliness which women are so quick to acknowledge and bow to; and Lady Luce shrank a little; but her hand tightened on his arm, and her brown, velvety eyes dimmed with genuine tears—for she was more than anxious, and more than half in love with him—looked up at him penitently, imploringly.
"Drake—you believe me?" she whispered. "Don't—don't punish me too badly! See, I am at your feet—a woman—Drake"—her voice sank to a whisper, became almost inaudible, and her head drooped forward until it nearly rested on his breast. "Drake—forgive—me and——"
Her voice broke suddenly.
He was moved to something like pity. Is there any man alive who can resist the prayer, the touch of a beautiful woman, especially if she is the woman he has once loved? If such a man there be, his name is not Drake Selbie.