seemed to deepen under his glance.

"And that," he continued, "is the source of all my anger, against
you, against myself, and against circumstances. If I had deemed
myself remotely worthy of you," he continued, "I should have asked
you weeks ago to be my wife. Oh, wait, and hear me out. I have
more than once been upon the point of doing so - the last time was
that night on the balcony at Count Redondo's. I would have spoken
then; I would have taken my courage in my hands, confessed my
unworthiness and my love. But I was restrained because, although I
might confess, there was nothing I could ask. I am a poor man,
Sylvia, you are the daughter of a wealthy one; men speak of you as
an heiress. To ask you to marry me - " He broke off. "You realise
that I could not; that I should have been deemed a fortune-hunter,
not only by the world, which matters nothing, but perhaps by
yourself, who matter everything. I - I -" he faltered, fumbling for
words to express thoughts of an overwhelming intricacy. "It was
not perhaps that so much as the thought that, if my suit should come
to prosper, men would say you had thrown yourself away on a
fortune-hunter. To myself I should have accounted the reproach well
earned, but it seemed to me that it must contain something slighting
to you, and to shield you from all slights must be the first concern
of my deep worship for you. That," he ended fiercely, "is why I am
so angry, so desperate at the slight you have put upon yourself for
my sake - for me, who would have sacrificed life and honour and
everything I hold of any account, to keep you up there, enthroned
not only in my own eyes, but in the eyes of every man."

He paused, and looked at her and she at him. She was still very
white, and one of her long, slender hands was pressed to her bosom