They were so close together that if she had stretched out those groping hands another inch they would have touched him. Something in his tone set a barrier between them and Raymond’s hands fell empty. The world was whirling round her. Life and death, love and hate, their parting and this meeting were merged in a confusion that robbed her of thought and almost of consciousness. It seemed to her as if they had been standing there for a long, long time, or, rather, as if time had nothing to do with them, and they had been cast into a strange eternity. Out of the turmoil of her thought arose the remembrance of the last time she and Anthony had trysted in this place—a sky almost unbearably blue and the sea brilliant under the noonday sun. Now there was no light anywhere. Anthony was alive. That should have been joy unbelievable. All through the years since she had read his name in the list of missing with what an overwhelming surge of joy would her heart have lifted to the words, “Anthony is alive.” Now she said them to herself and felt only a deeper, more terrible sense of separation than any that had touched her yet. They stood together, and between them there was a gulf unpassable—and no light anywhere. Raymond moved very slowly back along the way that she had come. She came to the stone seat, caught at the back of it with a hand that suddenly began to shake, and sat down. A few slow moments passed. Then she bent and began to grope for the torch which she had dropped. Anthony came towards her. “What is it?” he said, and she answered him in a low, fluttering voice: “My light—I dropped—it’s so dark—I want the light.” The strong, capable hand groping without aim stirred something in Anthony. He said, almost roughly: “I’ll find it.” Then a moment later he had picked it up, found it intact save for a crack in the glass, and, switching it on, put it down on the seat beside her. He was not prepared for her immediately flashing the light on to his face. An exclamation broke from him, and to cover it he said: “I am changed out of knowledge.” “Changed—yes—Tony, that scar.” Her voice trembled away into silence. Her hand fell. The dusk was between them. “Ugly, isn’t it? But I haven’t the monopoly of change, have I? You, I think, have changed also.” “Yes.” With an impulse she hardly understood, she raised the light and turned it until her face and her bare throat were brilliantly illuminated. The dark cloak fell away a little. The dark eyes looked at him with defiance and appeal. Her beauty, seen like that, had something that startled; it was so devoid of life and colour, and yet so great! After a long, breathless minute Anthony said in his slow voice: “You have changed more than I have, Lady Heritage, for you have changed your name.” He saw the last vestige of colour leave her face. She put the lamp down, and her silence startled him. “No one would have known me,” he said after a pause that was all strain.