face; the pallor and suffering of a great passion were on it; he had known that she loved the things of the world; but he had believed that she loved him more.
He was undeceived. He looked at this beautiful woman with the gold chain loosed about her throat, and the white brocaded lilies gleaming in the gloom, and only by a supreme effort did he subdue the bitterness and brutality which lie underneath all strong passions.
"One moment!" he said, as she moved to reach the door. "Can you say you have no love for me?"
Her colour varied.
"What is the use? Give me my mask."
"Can you say you do not love me?"
She hesitated; she wished to lie and could not.
"I did not say that," she murmured. "Perhaps if things were different—But, as it is—it is no use."
The half-confession sufficed, it loosened his lips to passionate appeal; with all the eloquence natural to him and to his language, he poured
