Henry laughed somewhat bitterly.
"Ought I? Perhaps, if Miss Allonby were likely to be swayed by such considerations. But she will marry for love, and only for love. Claud, what makes me rail against you so is that I believe she loves you. You don't deserve it, but I am afraid she does. And you—if you do not value it as you should——" he paused, for there was a knock at the door. "Come in," he said, irritably.
A waiter brought in a telegram for Claud. Hastily scanning it the young man turned to his rival.
"I am to bring you to dinner in Bruton Street," he said, after a pause. "I am afraid you must come. Percivale is to be there."
"I will be ready in fifteen minutes," answered Henry; and he disappeared into the inner room.
Claud stood gazing into the red embers in the grate with an awful sinking of the heart—a horrible depression he had never felt before. Now that he felt the possibility of losing Wynifred, he knew at last what his love was worth—knew that she was his life's one possibility of completion. Yet he had deserved to lose her.
Resting his arms on the mantel-piece, he let his fair head fall disconsolately upon them.
"My love, my dear," he whispered, "he is more worthy of you than I; and yet I believe that you belong to me—that I, with all my faults, could make you happier than he could. Choose me, Wynifred—my beloved, choose me!"