“Not the lady I love, madam.”

“Oh? But are you sure?”

“I am sure. She must marry a man whose honour is spotless; who is not⁠—a nameless outcast, and who lives⁠—not⁠—by dice⁠—and highway robbery.”

He knew that the brown eyes were glowing and sparkling with unshed tears, but he kept his own turned inexorably the other way. There was no doubting now that she cared, and that she knew that he did also. He could not leave her to think that her love had been slighted. She must not be hurt, but made to understand that he could not declare his love. But how hard it was, with her sorrowful gaze upon him and the pleading note in her voice. It was quivering now:

“Must she, sir?”

“Yes, madam.”