"God bless you for that!" he murmured, and took my hand. "Only what is right! But, tell me, which is the right? I love you, and you love me. When and where you saw me, where and when and why and how your love for me began, I cannot guess. All that matters is ... you love me! Beautiful Gertrude, answer me. You love me and I love you ... but which way lies the right?" "You mean," I said slowly, disengaging my hand, "that there is Susan?" "Yes," he said gently. "There is Susan. Which way lies the right? For all I know, I shall find Susan ugly, and she is a lady’s-maid. But the point is, I have forced her to love me, with such a love as I did not expect to find in this world. Do not smile, do not imagine I think myself handsome, or in the least adorable. But I have read her last letter fifty times, and I know, if I draw back, if I tell Susan of this cruel tangle, it will break her heart. No, do not interrupt me! In such a case, I know how hard it is for you to believe that I am not mad. Dearest, help me, for God’s sake! It’s hard enough, God knows!" I ought to have thrust in words boldly, refusing to be denied. I ought to have told him everything. But he silenced me with one gesture and finished. "Yet after all," he said, "what is there to discuss or to decide? Haven’t you told me already to do the right? And the right is ... to keep faith with Susan. Oh, I know, I know!" he cried out bitterly, "it will wound your heart, it will break mine. But, dearest, we have so much. We have books, we have friends, we have a hundred occupations. But this poor Susan--what has she? She has nothing, except love." "If she has love," I said, "and we have all else in the world beside; then Susan is rich and we are poor." He turned away. When he looked at me again, he said: "It is simply a choice which of us must be robbed of happiness, and burdened with life-long sorrow, and filled with bitterness. You and I are two, and Susan is one. They say minorities must suffer." He smiled a sad smile, and watched me narrowly. And, at the same moment, a coldness numbed my heart. While he had been extolling Susan, I had drunk in his words deliciously, biding my time to laugh out merrily and prick the shining bubble. But suddenly, all things stood out in a different light. I remembered my oath to Susan at Traxelby. I remembered that she had given up Gibson. I recalled, with anger, that at this very moment she was prowling about to catch some secret glimpse of her lover. "Yes," he repeated. "Minorities suffer. It is the way of the world. I renounce Susan, and what does it amount to? A mere lady’s-maid sees me break faith and drop her in favour of wealth and beauty. She loses her faith in God and man. Possibly, she even has the bad taste to go and die. Meanwhile I, having always had all I want, go and get a great deal more. Natural, isn’t it?" He laughed a bitter laugh. "Don’t talk again like that," I said, as bitterly as he.