"No, of course not; I beg your pardon," he says apologetically. "It is
your own secret."

"There is no secret," she declares nervously. "None."

"I have offended you. I should not have said that. You will forgive me?"
he entreats, with agitation.

"You are quite forgiven;" and, as a token of the truth of her words, she
leans a little further out of the window, and looks down at him with a
face pale indeed, but full of an unutterable sweetness.

Her beauty conquers all his resolutions.

"Oh, Florence," he whispers in an impassioned tone, "if I only dare to
tell you what--"

She starts and lays a finger on her lips, as though to enforce silence.

"Hush!" she says, in trembling accents. "You forget! The hour, the
surroundings, have momentarily led you astray. I ought not to have spoken
with you. Go! There is nothing you dare to tell me--there is nothing I
would wish to hear. Remember your duty to another--and--good-night."

"Stay, I implore you, for one moment," he cries; but she is firm, and
presently the curtains are drawn close and he is alone.

Slowly he walks back toward the smoking-room, her last words ringing in
his ears--"Remember your duty to another." What other? He is puzzled,