"Oh, no, no, Mr. Moore," she said, piteously. "What have I done? How could I imagine you were thinking of any such thing? And—and on my account—that you should dream of making such a sacrifice—giving up your reputation and your position—"
Where was his acting now?—where the passionate appeal he would have made on the stage? He stood stock-still—his eyes bent earnestly on hers—and he spoke slowly:
"It is no sacrifice. It is nothing. I wish for another life—but with you—with you. Have you one word of hope to give me?"
He saw his answer already.
"I cannot—I cannot," she said, with downcast eyes, and obviously in such deep distress that his heart smote him.
"It is enough," said he. "I—I was a fool to deceive myself with such imaginings—that are far beyond me. You will forgive me, Miss Honnor; I did not wish to cause you any pain; why, what harm is done except that I have been too presumptuous and too frank—and you will forget that. Tell me you forgive me!"
He held out his hand; she took it for a moment; and for another moment he held hers in a firm grasp.
"If I could tell you," he said, in a low voice, "what I thought of you—what every one thinks of you—you might perhaps understand why I have dared to speak."
She withdrew her hand quickly; her mother was at the door. When Lady Cunyngham came into the room, her daughter was apparently turning over those photographs and engravings. Lionel went forward to the elder lady to pay his respects; there was a brief conversation, introduced by Miss Honnor, about Mr. Moore's generous proposal to sing at any charitable concert they might be interested in; and then, as soon as he could, Lionel said good-bye, left the house, and passed into the outer world—where the dusk of the December afternoon was coming down over the far wastes of sea.