It was just that little quaver prefacing her last two words which precipitated the affair. Otherwise a question natural enough under the circumstances would have proved innocuous. But for the life of her she could not control her voice; on those simple words it broke; and so the question became confession--confession, accusation and challenge all in, one. It created first a pause, an instant of breathless suspense, while Lyttleton stared in doubt and Sally steeled herself, with an effect of trembling, reluctant, upon the brink of some vast mystery. Then: "To me?" he said slowly. "You mean me to understand you might lie to another-but not to me?" Her response was little better than a gasp: "You know it!" He acknowledged this with half a nod; he knew it well, too well. Now she must have seemed very lovely to the man in that moment of defiance. She saw his eyes lighten with a singular flash, saw his face darken suddenly in the paling moonlight, and heard the sharp sibilance of his indrawn breath. And whether or not it was so, she fancied the wind had fallen, that the night was hushed once more, and now more profoundly than it had ever been, as though the very world were standing still in anticipation. She heard him cry, almost angrily: "Oh, damn it, I must not!" And with that she was in his arms, sobbing, panting, going to heaven against his lips. . . . Then fell a lull. She was conscious that his embrace relaxed a trifle, heard the murmur of his consternation: "Oh, this is madness, madness!" But when she tried to release herself his arms tightened. "No!" he said thickly, "not now--not after this. Don't. I love you!" She braced her hands against his breast, struggled, thrust him away from her, found herself free at last. "You don't!" she sobbed miserably; "You don't love me. Don't lie to me! Let me go!" "Why do you say that? You love me, and I--" "Don't say it! It isn't true! I know. I threw myself at your head. What else could you do? You care nothing about me; to you I'm just one more silly woman. No; let me be, please! You do not love me--you don't, you don't, you don't!" He shrugged, relinquished his effort to recapture her, muttered uncertainly: "Blessed if I know!" Recovering a little, she drew her hands swiftly across face and eyes that still burned with his kisses. "Oh!" she cried brokenly, "why did you--why did I--?" "What's the good of asking that? It's done now," he argued with a touch of aggrieved resentment. "I didn't mean--I meant to--I don't know what I meant. Only--never this." He took an impatient stride or two in the shelter of the shadow, turned back to her, expostulant: "It's too bad! I'd have given worlds--" "But now I've gone and done it!" she retorted bitterly. In chagrin, her own indignation mounted. "It is too bad, poor Mr. Lyttleton!" That was too much; he came closer and grasped her wrist. "Why do you talk that way to me?" he demanded wrathfully. "What have I done--?"