is not discrowned by violence, but signs a willing abdication, herself convinced. For passion can simulate right, even as in some natures the love of right becomes a turbulent passion in the end, like most of such, destructive of itself.
"Then I am yours, and you are mine? And the Embassy is Wetter's?"
"The Embassy is whose you like," she cried, "if the rest is true."
"It is Wetter's. Do you know why? That everybody may know how I am yours."
She did not refuse even the perilous fame I offered.
"I should be proud of it," she said, with head erect.
"No, no; nobody shall breathe a letter of your name," I exclaimed in a sudden turn of feeling. "I will swear that you had nothing to do with it, that you hate him, that you never mentioned it."
"Say what you like," she whispered.
"If I did that, I should say to all Forstadt that there's no woman in the world like you."
"You needn't say it to all Forstadt. You haven't even said it to me yet."
We had been sitting together. Again I fell on one knee, prepared to offer her formal homage in a sweet extravagance. On a sudden she raised her hand; her face grew alarmed.
"Hark!" she said. "Hark!"
"To your voice, yours only!"
"No. There is a noise. Somebody is coming. Who can it be?"
"I don't care who it is."
"Why, dearest! But you must care. Get up, get up, get up!"
