"Is there, then, no hope?" asks Chandos, sternly. "Am I to understand that you again reject me?"
"Yes, as you put it in that light. It is your own fault," bursts out Bebe, passionately. "I told you not to speak."
"Had all the world told me the same thing, I would still have spoken. Death itself is preferable to suspense. If my persistence has caused you any annoyance, Miss Beatoun, I beg you will forgive me."
"I too would be forgiven," falters Bebe, putting out a cold white hand. As he stoops to kiss it she goes on, faintly: "Will you promise me to forget you ever cared for me—in this way?"
"Impossible," returns he, abruptly, and turning, walks out of the conservatory through the door by which he entered.
Now, is it not provoking? I feel my heart touched with pity for Lord Chandos, with resentment towards his cruel love, until, glancing towards the latter, who has stood motionless since his departure, with head bent and hands loosely clasped, the resentment fades, and compassion of the deepest takes its place.
I would give all the world to be able to go, meet and comfort her, to twine my arms around her neck, to express my sympathy. But how can I? What a treacherous creature she would think me! How mean! nothing but a pitiful eavesdropper. Slowly she raises her head, and, breathing a heavy sigh, advances until she stands within the drawing-room.
She is awfully close to me now: I can almost touch her. How on earth am I to meet her again with this secret on my mind? If I go on feeling as I do now, I shall betray my self a thousand times within an hour.
Two large tears gather in her eyes and roll mournfully downwards.
I can bear it no longer. Whatever comes of it, I must make my presence known, and, springing from my couch, I dash aside the thick lace curtains and reveal myself.