‘My _darling_,’ he says emphatically, ‘why cannot we end all this misery, and live for each other from this time forward?’ But as he speaks, the gondoliers alter their chant, and strike up a little Neapolitan barcarolle. It is a simple plaintive air, without much merit in itself, but the last time Sir Roland heard it, it came from Juliet’s lips as she was hushing a fractious child to rest. In a moment the past scene rises before him. He can see his wife’s drooping figure, the sad look in her eyes; can hear the faltering tones of her weary voice. He recalls, in fact, the mother of his children, the woman who has borne, however impatiently, the burden and heat of the day with him; and all the best part of the man’s nature rises up to condemn his present faithless action. ‘God in heaven!’ he exclaims aloud; ‘what am I saying and doing? Mabel, forgive me! It was the madness of a moment. It shall never be repeated.’ But he has said the words, and they are not to be unsaid. Miss Moore enjoys the situation. It appeals to her romantic proclivities, and she clings to him tightly even whilst she murmurs. ‘Oh no; you mustn’t say such things to me. It is very, very wrong. But, Roland, to know you love me atones for everything. I can die happy now.’ ‘Indeed, I had no right to speak to you in such a manner, but your tears made me lose sight of prudence. Mabel, promise me that you will forget what I said.’ ‘Don’t ask me that, it will be so sweet to remember,’ she says, still clinging to him. He tries gently to disengage himself. ‘Sit back on your seat, there’s a good girl. These fellows are looking at us. Mabel, try and be calm. We must never mention this subject again. It is too painful.’ ‘But why should we deny ourselves the poor delights of memory, since it is all that is left?’ ‘We must stamp it out. It can lead to no good for either of us; and for you, perhaps, to irreparable harm. I am not a Trojan in virtue, Mabel; you must not try me too hard.’ ‘But you will love me always, Roland, will you not?’ What can he say? He knows already that he does not love her at all. But he is a man, and she is a woman, and he does as many other men would do—he swears he shall never cease to care for her. ‘If I were free!’ he murmurs; ‘but you see how it is, my darling. I am bound hand and foot, and we never can be anything more than we are to one another. I must not quite forget my poor children.’ ‘But we shall be friends always, shall we not?’ ‘The very best and closest of friends, but we mustn’t trust ourselves alone again. You are too lovely, Mabel, and I—I am too weak. I am sure you must see the reason of what I say?’ ‘Yes; yes. But let us enjoy this one last evening together. Don’t go home just yet. Remember it is for the last time.’