"Yes," she answered. "I hate you, I hate you," and closed the door.
For a moment Moore stood staring at the spot where she had paused; then he turned with an oath.
"You heard that, Lord Brooking?" he cried bitterly. "You saw that? That ends it all. I 'm through with the old dream forever. I 'll go back to Ireland. Back to the green fields and rippling brooks. I 'm through with London. I 've starved here. It has broken my heart and I hate it. In Ireland I will be with my friends--my own people. There I will forget her. I will learn to hate her. Aye, to hate her."
And he threw himself heavily into his arm-chair.
Lord Brooking stepped quickly forward.
"You are right, Moore," said he. "Tear her from your heart."
"Yes," cried the poet, desperately.
"There are other women much more fair than she. Go back to Ireland and forget her."
"I will, sir."
"Leave her to Sir Percival Lovelace!"