We looked full at one another without speaking. And, as I looked, I knew that, though he could not be mine in this world, I must be his for ever and ever. Then the enormous whiteness of the cliff seemed to rock before my eyes, and the humming of the beck swelled to thunder in my ears. But he caught me before I fell. "Susan!" he said softly in my ear. His voice was warmer and brighter than gold, as he repeated: "Susan!" I lay helpless in his arms. All strength had gone from me, just as it had gone when I half swooned in the sea. I could not struggle. I could only let myself sink more wholly against his heart, just as I had so willingly sunk down, down, down through the cool green water to the deep, strong peace of Death. But, though Death’s caress had been sweet, it was sweeter to rest against the warm heart of Love. I don’t know how long that perfect happiness endured before a stab of anguish pierced me through. It seemed an hour; it may have been a minute; perhaps it was less than half a second before full consciousness returned. Then a voice within me cried shame. I remembered that, although I had gazed at his face in the broad light of the moon, he had only seen mine in the shadow. Bitterest of all, it was not my name he had murmured in that voice brighter and warmer than gold. He had hailed Susan. I was a cheat, a changeling, lying shameless in Susan’s place. I knew it. But, for a moment longer, I rested at peace in the soft nest of his arms. With all the grey years of the future to be lived through in loveless loneliness, I deliberately gave myself that one long moment. As if he knew that the warmth and sweetness of it must last me all my life long, he held me closer to his heart. I wished, then, that I could have died. Life, harsh Life, cried aloud. I called up some sudden strength and tore myself free. "I am not Susan," I said. He gave the slightest cry, made the slightest retreat in the world. Then, before I knew, he enfolded me once more. "No," he said proudly. "Not Susan. Suzanne--_ma petite Suzanne_. But I frightened her. She is trembling. Suzanne, forgive me! I must have been mad to leap out upon you like that. But how could she walk along the beach to-night and not expect me to be here?" I heard him vaguely. He was too strong for me. My will, my moral energy as well as my bodily strength, refused to return at my command. I could hardly open my eyes to look up at the mild moon, so like the cool, round sun which I had seen from under the water. "Say you forgive me, Suzanne," he murmured. "You are angry with me for coming to France. How could I wait, Suzanne, when you had confessed that you love me?" I wrenched myself roughly free. With a frenzied effort of will, I rallied back all my allies of conventionality and of pride. "You have made a mistake," I said curtly, stepping away two or three paces. "I am not Susan."