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“And to me,” she breathed out.

“Now–yes,” he said, “but this morning? And to-morrow? . . . This is what . . .”

He started at the drift of his words and broke off abruptly. Every train of thought seemed to lead into the hopeless realm of ungovernable folly, to recall the knowledge and the terror of forces that must be ignored. He said rapidly–

“My position is very painful–difficult . . . I feel . . .”

He looked at her fixedly with a pained air, as though frightfully oppressed by a sudden inability to express his pent-up ideas.

“I am ready to go,” she said very low. “I have forfeited everything . . . to learn . . . to learn . . .”

Her chin fell on her breast; her voice died out in a sigh. He made a slight gesture of impatient assent.

“Yes! Yes! It’s all very well . . . of course. Forfeited–ah! Morally forfeited–only morally forfeited . . . if I am to believe you . . .”

She startled him by jumping up.

“Oh! I believe, I believe,” he said, hastily, and she sat down as suddenly as she had got up. He went on gloomily–

“I’ve suffered–I suffer now. You can’t understand how much. So much that when you propose a parting I almost think. . . . But no. There is duty. You’ve forgotten it; I never did. Before heaven, I never did. But in a horrid exposure like this the judgment of mankind goes astray–at least for a time. You see, you and I–at least I feel that–you and I are one before the world. It is as it should be. The world is right–in the main–or else it couldn’t be–couldn’t be–what it is. And we are part of it. We have our duty to–to our fellow beings who don’t want to . . . to. . . er.”

He stammered. She looked up at him with wide eyes, and her lips were slightly parted. He went on mumbling–

“. . . Pain. . . . Indignation. . . . Sure to misunderstand. I’ve suffered enough. And if there has been nothing irreparable–as you assure me . . . then . . .”

“Alvan!” she cried.

“What?” he said, morosely. He gazed down at her for a moment with a sombre stare, as one looks at ruins, at the devastation of some natural disaster.

“Then,” he continued after a short pause, “the best thing is . . . the best for us . . . for every one. . . . Yes . . . least pain–most unselfish. . . .” His voice faltered, and she heard only detached words. “. . . Duty. . . . Burden. . . . Ourselves. . . . Silence.”

A moment of perfect stillness ensued.

“This is an appeal I am making to your conscience,” he said, suddenly, in an explanatory tone, “not to add to the wretchedness of all this: to try loyally and help me to live it down somehow. Without any reservations–you know. Loyally! You can’t deny I’ve been cruelly wronged and–after all–my affection deserves . . .” He paused with evident anxiety to hear her speak.

“I make no reservations,” she said, mournfully. “How could I? I found myself out and came back to . . .” her eyes flashed scornfully for an instant “. . . to what–to what you propose. You see . . . I . . . I can be trusted . . . now.”

He listened to every word with profound attention, and when she ceased seemed to wait for more.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” he asked.

She was startled by his tone, and said faintly–

“I spoke the truth. What more can I say?”

“Confound it! You might say something human,” he burst out. “It isn’t being truthful; it’s being brazen–if you want to know. Not a word to show you feel your position, and–and mine. Not a single word of acknowledgment, or regret–or remorse . . . or . . . something.”