"That does not satisfy me."

"My dear old fellow," exclaimed Jack, stretching out his hand, "you--you understand; I cannot--I'm unable to give any."

"Why?"

"Because it is impossible."

"Do you love her?" asked Hugh fiercely.

"Love her!" the other echoed, with a short laugh. "I swear to you, upon my oath, I hate her! Have I not already long ago expressed my opinion?"

"Is that still unchanged?"

"Quite--intensified rather than moderated."

"Well, perhaps I have been a trifle too hasty, Jack. It seems that you know much of her past. Tell me, what was the object of your interview?"

He was silent. Presently he said--

"Hugh, you are an old friend, and I wish I were at liberty to tell you, but I regret I am not. Request no explanation, and rest a.s.sured that Valerie and myself are not lovers, and, further, that we never were."

"Are you aware that Valerie and my late brother were acquainted?"

Trethowen asked suddenly.

"How did you discover that?" exclaimed the artist in astonishment.

"Then you appear to know that she was a friend of his," remarked Hugh dryly.

"No; I--it's the first I've heard of it. Who told you?"

"I want to know whether it's a fact or not," persisted his friend.

"I don't know," he replied sullenly.

"You mean, you positively refuse to tell me?"

"No; it is inability."

The two men continued their conversation for a short time longer, then Hugh left and returned to his chambers, not, however, before the warm friendship which had previously existed between them had been resumed.

That evening Jacob handed his master a telegram from Valerie. She had evidently made a sudden resolve, and had lost no time in carrying it into effect, for the message read--

"_As you appear to doubt my explanation I have decided to leave England for the present. If you desire to write, a letter to 46, Avenue de la Toison d'Or, Brussels, will always find me_."

With a prolonged whistle he sank into his chair, staring aimlessly at the indistinct words on the pink paper which he held between his fingers.

He was half inclined to believe he had misjudged her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

ON CORNISH CLIFFS.

"Let us return now, Mr. Trethowen. The night is chilly, and, besides, if we are too long, Jack--I mean Mr. Egerton--will suspect us of whispering sweet nothings."

"And if he does, surely there's no harm, Dolly? He's not jealous of you, he--I mean, it isn't as if you were engaged to him."

"No, that is so," she replied; "he is such a prosaic old bachelor. Why, I a.s.sure you that ever since I have known him he's never hinted at love.

I am his model, his friend--that is all."

"Do you know," Trethowen said, after a few moments' reflection, "I've often wondered, Dolly, how it is you have not married him."

"Why should he marry me?" she asked in surprise. "I'm only an artist's model, a woman who is looked down upon by fastidious prudes as immodest--yet the same women admire the pictures when in the galleries, and--"

"But supposing he loved you?"

She shook her head.

"He does not," she answered. "We are both Bohemians, and have many tastes in common. We found our ideas were similar years ago, when he was struggling for an existence in an attic and I was almost starving.

Since that time to the present we have, in a pecuniary sense, shared one another's lot. If I became his wife it is possible neither of us would be so happy as we are."

But he only laughed, and said--

"He'll ask you one day, and then perhaps you won't refuse."

"Don't be absurd," she protested, with a smile. "I am quite content as I am."

Nevertheless, she heaved a slight sigh, and it was evident it was scarcely the truth she spoke.

Dolly Vivian had walked with him from the Hall to the outskirts of Bude, and they were now resting beside an old railing which protected the footpath along the edge of the high cliff.

The night was perfect. The light of the April moon flooded the valleys, illuminated the hilltops, and trailed along the plains of Cornish gra.s.s land in uninterrupted streams. The pale grey sea and pale grey sky were tinged with a faint blue; a few stars shone dimly here and there; the whole horizon was wrapped in mist, which took a tint of saffron-pink under the moon's rim, and was slightly darkened where sea and sky converged. There was utter silence, a stillness that was complete and absolute, as if every one in the world had died, and even the waves lapping the beach below scarcely whispered.

They stood together, their faces turned towards the scattered glimmering lights of Bude.

A fortnight ago, Hugh, holding out prospects of good sketching, had prevailed upon Jack to visit him, and at the same time had invited Dolly. They had spent a pleasant couple of weeks together, and this was their last evening; for Egerton had an appointment with a lady, who had commissioned him to paint her portrait, and it was imperative that he should leave for London on the morrow. He had pleaded that his correspondence demanded attention, and thus it was that Dolly and Hugh had gone for a short ramble after dinner, leaving the artist writing in the library.

The pair had been silent for several minutes, entranced by the charm of the moonlit scene. Hugh had grown grave and thoughtful, for his companion's emphatic protest puzzled him.

"Ah, well," he exclaimed, at length, "I suppose sooner or later all of us will be married and settled, as the old ladies say."

"You are speaking of yourself," she remarked mischievously.

"No--I spoke collectively. Marriage or burial will be the lot of all of us--some sooner, some later."

"Ah," she exclaimed, as if suddenly recollecting, "you have not spoken of Mademoiselle Valerie. How is she? Do you often hear from her?"

"I had a letter a month ago. She was still in Brussels, and apparently in good health."

"She has been absent some time now. When do you intend seeing her?"