He remembered how he had asked her to sing to him, and she refused, looking confused and uneasy the while. He understood now the reason why.
He took a chair by her side; the folio lay upon a table placed in a large room, lighted by a silver lamp. They were as much alone there as though they had been in another room. She took out a drawing, and laid it before him. He neither saw it nor heard what she remarked.
"Lillian," he said, suddenly, "if you were asked what was the most deadly sin a woman could commit, what should you reply?"
"That is a strange question," she answered. "I do not know, Lionel. I think I hate all sin alike."
"Then I will tell you," he said bitterly; "it is false, foul deceit—black, heartless treachery."
She looked up in amazement at his angry tone; then there was for some moments unbroken silence.
"I can not see the drawings," he said; "take them away. Lillian Earle, raise your eyes to mine; look me straight in the face. How long is it since I asked you to be my wife?"
Her gentle eyes never wavered, they were fixed half in wonder on his, but at his question the faint flush on her cheeks grew deeper.
"Not very long," she replied; "a few days."
"You said you loved me," he continued.