brought her unwilling eyes back to Philip's tired, angry, harassed face, noted, although half ashamed, his rumpled hair and ill-fitting coat, his general lack of finish and repose, and drawing one hand slowly over the other, slightly shook her head.

"You will not?" he cried out hoarsely. Then without waiting for her reply, he burst into a torrent of disappointment and recrimination, urged thereto by his hurt self-love; as he, quick as Patricia to make comparisons, noted in proud disdain his provincial appearance beside the perfectly-mannered, faultlessly-dressed, languidly-interested young moths, who fluttered about the flame of Patricia's beauty, stupidly singing their sensibilities in the fire of her brilliancy. Yet none the less, though he knew and felt his own worth and truth to be boundless, compared to theirs, he also felt that in the eyes of the woman he loved, he looked—oh, unpardonable sin—honest, jealous, and countrified.

"You are not worthy of my love, or of me," he cried. "Go your own way, Patricia, lead your own life; I release you, but don't for one moment think you have injured or blighted mine. If all these luxurious dainties, and all those brainless fools," with a contemptuous wave of his hand towards the innocent revellers and their surroundings, "are more to you than my love, then is your love too dainty a luxury for me. I loved you, Patty, God knows how I loved you; but that goes for nothing in your eyes. Good-bye, Patricia, good-bye."

She stood very still and silent while he spoke, the colour burned red in her cheeks, the fire gleamed in her eyes, her bosom rose and fell rapidly with the quick beating of her heart. She had not intended that half unwilling shake of her head to be taken so literally, and used against her. Was he not over anxious to grasp at this chance of freedom? Were there not others, only waiting for her to declare herself unfettered, to offer her so much more than this one poor man could give? Above all, did he not snatch at this suddenly-made breach between them with almost indecent haste? Her head rose proudly. She met his look gallantly.

"As you say; no, I cannot live without what to me makes up the sum of life; luxuries, dainties, call them what you will; they have not entered over much into your life, I know; but they have become a part of mine, and of me. I should be miserable without them."

"Even as my wife?" he asked royally.

"Even as your wife," she answered proudly.

He said no more, but as he turned to go from her, she came close up to him, touching him lightly on his arm. His love had been very dear to her; might she not keep a slight chain upon him still, so that in the future she might have some little hold upon him; and, indeed, did she not love him all the more because of his hot anger, and bitter truth, and loyal love?

She put out both her hands to him—her voice was very gentle and pleading:

"Since we are to part, Philip, and you will have it so, will you not kiss me once, only once more, for good-bye?"

He turned from her, unheeding her pleading voice or hands.

"Do not say it is my will that we part, Patricia; be just at least, if you cannot be generous. No, I will not kiss you now, I am not quite a hypocrite; perhaps one day, when I can believe and trust in you again, Patty, or when all my love for you is dead, or when I can think of you, look at you, judge you, as other men do, then I will kiss you, but not until then. Ask me then, Patricia."

"I will never ask you again," she answered passionately; "but you, Philip, shall be the first to beg a kiss from me, and I shall be the one to make your pride suffer, as you now make mine."

Then she left him, sweeping by him, proud, tremulous, excited, stung to the heart, but making no sign. He heard her laugh ring out joyously, a moment later, as she applauded some witticism of one of her admirers, and with a muttered exclamation he made his way out into the night.

So they had parted, and never since that unhappy evening had they met.

Time went on; there came trouble to Patricia in the death of her mother; he wrote her a cold note of condolence, to which he received no reply; then rumour brought him the knowledge of her inherited wealth, and, shortly after, of her engagement to a man many years her senior. Of her wealth he thought little, of her engagement he spoke calmly, and with the air of a cynic, who beholds all things pass by, good and bad, and says, in the bitterness of his soul, cui bono? But, inwardly his love and pride were roused from their sleep of years, and he owned to himself, with a hard honesty, that to think of her as belonging to another man than he was intolerable. He had not been able to keep her love when he won it, but it was none the less a pain to find that another had succeeded where he had failed. Time, however, that wonderful physician, in a measure numbed his distress, and to his world he posed as a charming man, though cold and heartless; not one to be sentimental over a dead past, but rather one to make his power felt, and to lead and bend other wills by the stern inflexibility of his own.

And then had come Patricia's letter, telling of her broken toys; asking to be taken back into his affections; seeking to creep back into the old shelter of his heart, where once she had ruled so proudly.

Ten years had passed since he, in that sweet month of roses, had first met and loved her. Ten years; and in the mean time Philip Tremain had risen high in the world, and in men's opinions; his money had come to him, partly by inheritance, partly through his own hard work; he had made his name well known, his fame was still a rising one. No need to feel ashamed for him now; indeed, no greater sybarite lived than he, no truer dilettante, and no one whose surroundings were more daintily luxurious.

But notwithstanding the changes that had developed this, to her, unknown side of his nature, as he sat in the sunshine this fair spring morning, holding Patricia's letter in his hand, he judged her no less harshly, blamed her no whit the less, than he had when last he saw her, and refused to kiss her for good-bye. With her own hands she had torn the veil from his idol ten years ago, and he would not now voluntarily raise a finger to restore its shattered beauty.

An hour glided by, his cigar was finished, the freshness of the morning had departed, before he aroused himself from his retrospect; he turned to his writing-table with a smile, and a half-uttered: "No, not even for you, my once beloved Patty; you have made your own life, and you must live it out to the bitter end—alone."

His answer therefore to Patricia was a polite stiff note of condolence or congratulation, which she chose, on the failure of her matrimonial plans. A regret he was unable to accept her invitation, a hope for her happiness, an assurance that she might always consider him her friend, but nothing more; not one word in answer to the love she proffered, not one of remembrance of, or regret for the past.

Patricia Hildreth's face was not good to look upon, as she read his response; if ever mortified vanity and determined revenge was readable on a woman's countenance, it was to be seen on hers then.

"So I have humbled myself in vain," she said. "Well, it shall be your turn next, my Philip, or my woman's wit is of no account; you shall feel the same sting as you have given me, incased in your armour of pride and well-being though you may be. Take care, Philip, my hand is small but it is firm to strike, and he is most lost who thinks himself invulnerable to a woman's charms."

CHAPTER II.

THE FOLLY.

About a week later Mr. Tremain found at his breakfast plate another letter, and though bearing no crest or motto, and not suggestive of violets, was nevertheless a dainty enough feminine epistle.

"The