Gerald only thought he loved her, in a week he would be enamoured of some girl he met on the steamer. But thinking of his love, Bertha could not doubt that now at all events it was real; she knew better than any one what love was. She exulted to think that his was the real love, and compared it with her husband’s pallid flame. Gerald loved her with all his heart, with all his soul; he trembled with desire at her touch and his passion was an agony that blanched his cheek. She could not mistake the eager longing of his eyes. Ah, that was the love she wanted--the love that kills and the love that engenders. How could she regret that he loved her? She stood up, stretching out her arms in triumph, and in the empty room, her lips formed the words-- “Come, my beloved, come--for I love you!” * * * * * But the morning brought an intolerable depression. Bertha saw then the utter futility of her love: her marriage, his departure, made it impossible; the disparity of age made it even grotesque. But she could not dull the aching of her heart, she could not stop her tears. Gerald arrived at midday and found her alone. He approached almost timidly. “You’ve been crying, Bertha.” “I’ve been very unhappy,” she said. “Oh, please, Gerald, forget our idiocy of yesterday. Don’t say anything to me that I mustn’t hear.” “I can’t help loving you.” “Don’t you see that it’s all utter madness!” She was angry with herself for loving him, angry with Gerald because he had aroused in her a passion that made her despise herself. It seemed horrible and unnatural that she should be willing to throw herself into the arms of a dissolute boy, and it lowered her in her own estimation. He caught the expression of her eyes, and something of its meaning. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Bertha. You look as if you almost hated me.” She answered gravely, “I love you with all my heart, Gerald; and I’m ashamed.” “How can you!” he cried, with such pain in his voice that Bertha could not bear it. “The whole thing is awful,” she groaned. “For God’s sake let us try to forget it. I’ve only succeeded in making you entirely wretched. The only remedy is to part quickly.” “I can’t leave you, Bertha. Let me stay.” “It’s impossible. You must go, now more than ever.” They were interrupted by the appearance of Miss Ley, who began to talk; but to her surprise neither Bertha nor Gerald showed their usual vivacity. “What is the matter with you both to-day?” she asked. “You’re unusually attentive to my observations.” “I’m rather tired,” said Bertha, “and I have a headache.” Miss Ley looked at Bertha more closely, and fancied that she had been crying; Gerald also seemed profoundly miserable. Surely.... Then the truth dawned upon her, and she could hardly repress her astonishment. “Good Heavens!” she thought, “I must have been blind. How lucky he’s going in a week!”