Gertrude sat down with emphatic suddenness. His answer had crumpled her up, but also it acted boomerang-fashion, flew back and knocked the wind out of Bennett. (In a world of liars truth always acts like that.) He was the first to recover and he approached Gertrude with contrition. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't feel myself to-night. Queer things going on inside me and outside. It isn't quite true what I said just now. I do love you. I do, really. But love isn't what I thought it was. I don't know what it is, but it isn't what I thought it was." Miserably enough Gertrude murmured: "Are you in love with Annette?" Hotly and indignantly he answered: "No, I am not." "But you . . ." "I was not making love to Annette. It was an accident." Gertrude jumped at the occasion for magnanimity and said: "I believe you." "Thank you." His heart leaped within him, and privately to his own innermost conscience he whispered delightedly: "I am in love with Annette; in love, in love, in love with Annette." This new idea, the admission of the new fact, so absorbed him that he became oblivious of Gertrude. He had not even any regret for the months of folly through which she had dragged him. He was ashamed, not because he had turned from Gertrude, but because he had desired Annette. True love can never tolerate secrecy. The true lover must cry his emotion from the house-tops, for a new glory has come to the world and it is well that all men should know of it. A prophet of those days has said: "The woman should not venture to hope for or think for perfectness in him she would love, but _he_ should believe the maiden to be purity and perfection absolute and unqualified."--The shadow of that prophet had been on Gertrude and Bennett, unknown to them, and they had gone to the God of Love and asked him to make up the prescription, with this result, that with one little word of truth he had kicked down the slender props of their castle in Spain and brought him to the reality of himself, her to emptiness. She suffered most, for she had a highly developed instinct of possession, lived altogether in her possessions, and was left like a dismantled hulk when any of them were taken from her. She wept copiously, and Bennett tried to comfort her. He kissed her, and found a sort of pleasure in the salt savour of her tears. He soothed her at last, and with more common sense than he had anticipated she said only: "You won't let anybody know just yet." She drew the trumpery little engagement-ring he had given her--(she had not worn it at Folkestone or Sydenham)--from her finger and laid it on the table. He took it up, and after a moment's hesitation, restored it to its place. "I want you," he said, returning to the old romantic mood that had served them so well in the past, "I want you always to be my friend." "Always. Always." replied Gertrude with no less fervour, and she took his hand and pressed it against her cheek and kissed it.