"Let me say one thing, Honor. If this trouble of yours is connected with Power Magill—and I believe it is—you will not forget that he is a dangerous man, a man not to be trusted."
"I will not forget," she answers with a shiver, as she thinks of the meeting that is drawing nigh so rapidly.
The sun has set, and a cold mist is rising. It is very peaceful but rather dreary outside; and inside, in the familiar pretty room, the shadows are gathering.
Brian Beresford draws a step nearer. He had not meant to say one word of love to her—this willful girl who makes so light of him and his devotion; but, standing so close beside her in this tender gray twilight, impulse masters his judgment.
"Honor, has my love no power to touch you? Must this man forever stand between us even in his——" He is going to say disgrace, but the piteous look on the girl's face stays him.
"Oh, Brian, don't talk to me of love now—I cannot bear it!"
It is the first time she has ever called him Brian, and in her face, as she turns it from him, crimson from brow to chin, in her very attitude, as she stands with clasped hands before him, there is some subtle change that chills him.
"Then promise me that when times are brighter and you are happier you will listen to me, Honor."
"Perhaps," she stammers; and then, with tears in her eyes: "Oh, how cruel I am! I'm not worth loving!" And she is gone before he can say another word.
For so stoical a man, Brian Beresford is strangely excited to-night. Long after Honor has left him he walks up and down the darkening room, and, when the old butler comes in to light the lamps, he goes out on to the terrace and continues his measured tramp to and fro, smoking and thinking, and watching he scarcely knows for what.