"Why, then, have you come?"

Ernest felt a little awkward, disappointed, as he uttered these words.

What could have induced her to come to his rooms? He loosened his hold
on her and did as she asked.

How pale she looked in the light, how beautiful! Surely, she had
sorrowed for him; but why had she not answered his letter? Yes, why?

"Your letter?" She smiled a little sadly. "Surely you did not expect me
to answer that?"

"Why not?" He had again approached her and his lips were close to hers.
"Why not? I have yearned for you. I love you."

His breath intoxicated her; it was like a subtle perfume. Still she did
not yield.

"You love me now--you did not love me then. The music of your words was
cold--machine-made, strained and superficial. I shall not answer, I told
myself: in his heart he has forgotten you. I did not then realise that a
dangerous force had possessed your life and crushed in your mind every
image but its own."

"I don't understand."

"Do you think I would have come here if it were a light matter? No, I
tell you, it is a matter of life and death to you, at least as an
artist."