“Rosa!” I exclaimed warningly.

“Yes,” she continued urgently and feverishly, “forget me. I may seem cruel, but it is best there should be no beating about the bush. I can’t love you.”

“Rosa!” I repeated.

“Go back to London,” she went on. “You have ambitions. Fulfil them. Work at your profession. Above all, don’t think of me. And always remember that though I am very grateful to you, I cannot love you — never!”

“That isn’t true, Rosa!” I said quietly. “You have invited me into this carriage simply to lie to me. But you are an indifferent liar — it is not your forte. My dear child, do you imagine that I