“This week has been awful. I’ve never had the chance of saying a word to you. My heart has been breaking.” “My dearest.” “I wondered if you were sorry I was going.” She looked at him and tried to smile; already she could not trust herself to speak. “Every day I thought you would tell me to stop and you never did--and now it’s too late. Oh, Bertha, if you loved me you wouldn’t send me away.” “I think I love you too much. Don’t you see it’s better that we should part?” “I daren’t think of to-morrow.” “You are so young; in a little while you’ll fall in love with some one else. Don’t you see that I’m old?” “But I love you. Oh, I wish I could make you believe me. Bertha, Bertha, I can’t leave you. I love you too much.” “For God’s sake don’t talk like that. It’s hard enough to bear already--don’t make it harder.” The night had fallen, and through the open window the summer breeze came in, and the softness of the air was like a kiss. They sat side by side in silence, the boy holding Bertha’s hand; they could not speak, for words were powerless to express what was in their hearts. But presently a strange intoxication seized them, and the mystery of passion wrapped them about invisibly. Bertha felt the trembling of Gerald’s hand, and it passed to hers. She shuddered and tried to withdraw, but he would not let it go. The silence now became suddenly intolerable: Bertha tried to speak, but her throat was dry, and she could utter no word. A weakness came to her limbs and her heart beat painfully. Her eye crossed with Gerald’s, and they both looked instantly aside, as if caught in some crime. Bertha began to breathe more quickly. Gerald’s intense desire burned itself into her soul; she dared not move. She tried to implore God’s help, but she could not. The temptation which all the week had terrified her returned with double force--the temptation which she abhorred, but to which she had a horrible longing not to resist. And now she asked what it mattered. Her strength was dwindling, and Gerald had but to say a word. And now she wished him to say the word; he loved her, and she loved him passionately. She gave way; she no longer wished to resist. She turned her face to Gerald; she leant towards him with parted lips. “Bertha,” he whispered, and they were nearly in one another’s arms. But a fine sound pierced the silence; they started back and listened. They heard a key put into the front-door, and the door was opened. “Take care,” whispered Bertha, and pushed Gerald away. “It’s Aunt Polly.” Bertha pointed to the electric switch, and understanding, Gerald turned on the light. He looked round instinctively for some way of escape, but Bertha, with a woman’s quick invention, sprang to the door and flung it open. “Is that you, Aunt Polly?” she cried. “How fortunate you came back; Gerald is here to bid us definitely good-bye.” “He makes as many farewells as a _prima donna_,” said Miss Ley.