"My dear friend," he asked in quick anxiety, "what is the matter? Pardon me, but what on earth has happened to you?"
For Honoria leaned both elbows on the low, carved pillar terminating the masonry of the parapet. She covered her face with her hands. And, incontestably, she shuddered queerly from head to foot.
"Wait half a second," she said, in a stifled voice. "It's nothing—I'm all right."
Slowly she raised herself, and took a long breath. Then she turned to her faithful lover, showing him a brave, if somewhat drawn and tired countenance.
"Ludovic," she said gently, "don't, don't please let us talk any more about all that. And don't, I entreat you, wait any longer. If there was any uncertainty, if there was a doubt in the back of my mind, it's gone. Forgive me—this must sound brutal—but there is no more doubt. I can't marry you. I am sorry, horribly sorry—for you have been as charming to me as a man could be—but I shall never be able to marry you."
Mr. Quayle's expression retained its sweetness, even its effect of amusement, though his lips quivered, and his eyelids were a little red.
"I do not come up to the requirements of the grand passion?" he said. "Alas! poor me——"
"No, no, it isn't that," Honoria protested.
"Ah, then,"—he paused, with an air of extraordinary intelligence—"Perhaps some one else does?"
"Yes," she said simply, "I don't like it, but it's there, and so I've got to go through with it—some one else does."