"In God's name, what shall I call you, then?" his despair maddening him.

"You may call me . . . a dream. And I advise you to wake soon."

The man in him came to his rescue. He suddenly reached across the
table and caught her wrist. With his unengaged hand he caught up the
ashes and let them flutter back to the table.

"A lie, a woman's lie! Is that why the ash is black? Have I wronged
you in any way? Has my love been else than honest? Who are you?"
vehemently.

"I am play, Monsieur; pastime, frolic," insolently. "Was not that what
you named me in the single hours?"

"Are you some prince's light-o'-love?" roughly.

The blood of wrath spread over her cheeks.

"Your name?"

"I am not afraid of you, Monsieur; but you are twisting my arm cruelly.
Will you not let go? Thank you!"

"You will not tell me who you are?"

"No."

"Nor what your object was in playing with my heart?"