"No," she replied, "my tribute was brought in vain."

This she said calmly, but Ernest knew that her words were of tragic
import.

"You love him still?" he observed simply.

Ethel made no reply. Sadness clouded her face like a veil or like a grey
mist over the face of the waters. Her eyes went out to the sea,
following the sombre flight of the sea-mews.

In that moment he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her with
infinite tenderness.

But tenderness between man and woman is like a match in a
powder-magazine. The least provocation, and an amorous explosion will
ensue, tumbling down the card-houses of platonic affection. If he
yielded to the impulse of the moment, the wine of the springtide would
set their blood afire, and from the flames within us there is no escape.

"Come, come," she said, "you do not love me."

He protested.

"Ah!" she cried triumphantly, "how many sonnets would you give for me?
If you were a usurer in gold instead of in rhyme, I would ask how many
dollars. But it is unjust to pay in a coin that we value little. To a
man starving in gold mines, a piece of bread weighs more than all the
treasures of the earth. To you, I warrant your poems are the standard of