speak?" she asked impatiently, facing him in a defiant manner; and as
he looked up at her he noticed for the first time that she had grown
older and had lost all at once--at least, so it seemed to him--the
rounded, childish look from her sweet face and involuntarily a sigh
broke from him.

"One would think I had committed a crime," cried she in disdain, and
then, catching her skirts up, she broke into a step dance, humming a
popular music-hall air.

"Stop--do you hear me?--this instant stop!" the devil in him burst
out; he could restrain himself no longer.

"Woman! What are you made of?" he cried in a voice of thunder, and
she, shrinking back a little, fell half frightened into a chair. He
never could quite remember afterwards what he did say. He tried with
rough eloquence, that might have moved a heart of stone, to show her
what it was she was doing, to appeal to her better, nobler self, to
her love for him; he implored and entreated her to give up this new
life--for his sake.

He had nothing better to urge than that, poor fool! It weighed with
her as just so much chaff. The time had gone by when his words would
have touched her; they glided lightly over what she called her
"heart" now and left no impression there.

And then he went on his knees beside her and prayed her to grant him
this one boon; he poured out a flood of feverish words, hardly
pausing to think; he tried to paint an alluring picture of their life
in the future: they would leave Camberwell, he said; she should go