“Do you want anyone to be with us, to break in upon our lives? Aren’t we happier alone?” “Boris!” she said, “you--did you let him see that you wanted him to go?” It occurred to her suddenly that Androvsky, in his lack of worldly knowledge, might perhaps have shown their guest that he secretly resented the intrusion of a stranger upon them even for one evening, and that De Trevignac, being a sensitive man, had been hurt and had abruptly gone away. Her social sense revolted at this idea. “You didn’t let him see that, Boris!” she exclaimed. “After his escape from death! It would have been inhuman.” “Perhaps my love for you might even make me that, Domini. And if it did--if you knew why I was inhuman--would you blame me for it? Would you hate me for it?” There was a strong excitement dawning in him. It recalled to her the first night in the desert when they sat together on the ground and watched the waning of the fire. “Could you--could you hate me for anything, Domini?” he said. “Tell me--could you?” His face was close to hers. She looked at him with her long, steady eyes, that had truth written in their dark fire. “No,” she answered. “I could never hate you--now.” “Not if--not if I had done you harm? Not if I had done you a wrong?” “Could you ever do me a wrong?” she asked. She sat, looking at him as if in deep thought, for a moment. “I could almost as easily believe that God could,” she said at last simply. “Then you--you have perfect trust in me?” “But--have you ever thought I had not?” she asked. There was wonder in her voice. “But I have given my life to you,” she added still with wonder. “I am here in the desert with you. What more can I give? What more can I do?” He put his arms about her and drew her head down on his shoulder. “Nothing, nothing. You have given, you have done everything--too much, too much. I feel myself below you, I know myself below you--far, far down.” “How can you say that? I couldn’t have loved you if it were so.” She spoke with complete conviction. “Perhaps,” he said, in a low voice, “perhaps women never realise what their love can do. It might--it might--” “What, Boris?” “It might do what Christ did--go down into hell to preach to the--to the spirits in prison.” His voice had dropped almost to a murmur. With one hand on her cheek he kept her face pressed down upon his shoulder so that she could not see his face. “It might do that, Domini.” “Boris,” she said, almost whispering too, for his words and manner filled her with a sort of awe, “I want you to tell me something.” “What is it?” “Are you quite happy with me here in the desert? If you are I want you to tell me that you are. Remember--I shall believe you.” “No other human being could ever give me the happiness you give me.” “But--” He interrupted her. “No other human being ever has. Till I met you I had no conception of the happiness there is in the world for man and woman who love each other.” “Then you are happy?”