She did not answer, but there came into her mind those sad words of Tennyson:
"This is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."
She drew her hand from his clasp, and rose, pallid, beautiful, mournful, her rich and somber draperies rustling as she moved away from him.
"Mr. Valchester, do not be angry, but it would be better for you if you would go," she said, bravely.
"Better—for me?" he said, rising, and looking at her with haggard, weary eyes.
"For us both, then," she answered with patient truthfulness, though the color rose for a moment to her cheek.
"Not to see you again?" he said, questioningly.
"It would be better so," she answered, "unless you have changed your convictions," and he could not help seeing the trembling hope that came into her eyes. "Oh! Ronald, have you never changed in all these years? Do you still hold me bound to that terrible man by a law man cannot repeal?"
Her calmness had broken down. The anguish of that wild and sudden appeal thrilled through his heart. He had no words to answer her.
He saw the dark eyes gazing at him through a mist of tears, the white roses trembled on her breast with the quick beating of her heart. He could not answer the question.