The eager lightning flashed in his face. But I waited in vain for the dull thunder of despair, for the fall of the gloom. No, it was not lightning. With my heart standing still, I saw that the light abode in his eyes, that it waxed fuller and more radiant as he gazed intently into mine. But suddenly, he quenched it. "One second more," he commanded abruptly, dryly, almost harshly. "Simply and literally, without any paradoxes or ruses whatever, are you Susan?" "I am not Susan," I said, beginning to turn away. "Simply, and literally and truly, you are indeed Miss Langley?" "I am Miss Langley." Something chained me to the spot. I saw him go pale as death, and I heard him groan in anguish: "Then may God help us all!" "What do you mean?" I demanded. We seemed to be so mysteriously one, that the strength which deserted him passed into me. "Are you not satisfied?" I added. "I must go." In a flash, he was master again. He flung himself across my path. "No!" he cried. "You shall not go! Some meddling idiot has deceived me. There has been a horrible, an unspeakable mistake. Gertrude Langley, it was you I met in Derlingham. It was you I watched in Traxelby church. Gertrude Langley, it is you I love with my whole soul. It is you, it is you, it is you! I shall not let you go!" His words sang all round me like birds. My battle-worn, enfeebled spirit reeled under such bursts of music, such flashes of glory. I made one last agonizing effort to play the conventional part: to rebuke and repel him, to parade amazement, shame, and a dishonest show of anger. But he was too strong. He dominated me so, that I could not even pause to marvel at the miracle, or to ask myself if it could be true. I could only totter towards him in dumb, unconditional surrender, and burst into a torrent of thankful tears. This third time, he held me, not as he had held me before. Then, he had strained me to him like a lover; now, he supported me gravely, reverentially, as any man would support any woman who has half-fainted away. But, by swift degrees, he guessed the truth. He held me closer, he bent his lips to my ear, and he asked, with a grave wonder, in his voice of gold: "You do not mean ... this?" "Yes," I whispered, with my eyes closed, "I mean ... this." For two or three seconds we were content to have it so. Then his clasp weakened. I knew what he meant, and I drew myself free. "We forgot Susan," I said. "Yes," he said slowly. "We forgot Susan." He stood beside me in silence, looking at the sea. Then, without warning, he broke out with terrible words of anger. Not to me. It was as though he arraigned the universe and shook his fist at the stars.