She found her voice and continued:
"All is altered now, and I—oh, Arthur, forgive me, but—I cannot marry you now!"
It was a frightened gasp, and she grew pale as her snowy morning gown, as she stole another glance at his face.
It was cold, proud, angry. She had given his self-esteem a cruel blow, and stricken down his faith in her at one fell stroke.
"You despise me!" she faltered, and he answered icily:
"Do you not deserve it?"
"Yes," she murmured deeply. "My love was a poor thing, Arthur. It could not stand the test of your loss of rank and fortune. But you will not grieve for me. It was a lucky escape to lose a bride who lived only for ambition as I do. But—there is another with a truer heart than mine. Go to her, Arthur—to Precious—you can win her love, and she will make you happy."
He turned from her with scorn.
"Take your freedom, Miss Winans—you are welcome to it," he said bitterly, and hurried from the room; his heart swelling with wounded pride. He had never really loved her, but he had admired and respected her so much that he recoiled in pain from the knowledge that she had never really loved him at all and that she was at heart cold, scheming, and ambitious—a woman to throw aside a lover like a worn-out glove!