He threw himself on his knees before her and buried his head in her lap. "I have been in hell!" he cried. "What am I to do? God, who sees my heart, knows that I repent; but is it enough?" A feeling new to Angelica came over her, a divine kindliness and pity. She stroked his ruffled hair, and tried, in her blindness, her bewilderment, to find words to comfort him. "Of course!" she said. "If you’re sorry, it’ll be all right. You can start all over again." With his head still buried, he flung his arms about her waist and began to sob, hoarse, terrible sobs. She couldn’t bear it. "Oh, don’t! Don’t, darling!" she cried. He raised his head. "I must be mad!" he said. "I’m so tortured. I long so, I yearn so, after God. I want to be alone with Him, to contemplate Him forever, in solitude--in a desert--to pray to Him--to make my songs to Him. Almost all my verses are of God, Angelica. And then I see a lovely face--I drink another glass of wine--I read a line of voluptuous beauty--and I am lost again. How will it end? Oh, my merciful God, how will it end?" She spent almost all the night trying to quiet and console Vincent. She drew his head against her breast and kissed his forehead while she talked to him. She found, almost miraculously, words and ideas which gave him comfort, but with an effort which was torment for her. She had a sensation of fishing in the depths of her mind, and painfully hauling out some thought which she had not been conscious of having there. Her love lent her insight; she discerned the grain of terror that lay beneath the chaff of his theatrical eloquence. She was able to talk to him with piety--she who had no religion, and had never given a thought to such matters. She assured him that his repentance would wipe out his sins. "Why, Vincent!" she said. "_I_ could forgive anything you did; and you know God must be more forgiving than me." Steadfast, gentle, patient as an angel, she sat with him, listened to his confessions, his self-accusations, and absolved him in her love. Who could hold the man to blame for those faults which were his essence? Not God--not she! II The clock had struck four. They were sitting side by side on the sofa, both exhausted, pale, quite calm now. Vincent began to talk again, more in his usual voice. "Angelica," he said, "Eddie told me that he asked you to marry him, and that you refused him." "Of course I did, Vincent." "It was a mistake, my dear. It’s the very best thing you could do--both for yourself and for me." "Oh, Vincent!" she cried. "I couldn’t! You know I couldn’t!" "Angelica," he said, solemnly, "do it for my sake. Be my sister. I swear to you that all base and sensual feelings have left my heart. I am purged of all my lust." Well, so he was, for the moment; but by weariness, not by religion. He had talked himself into exhaustion.