Her face, that he watched with eyes whose burning he could feel, was as emotionless as motionless she fronted him. It might have been frozen, so still it was; and she a carven thing, so still she stood; and her eyes set jewels, so still were they. His breathing was to be heard as of one that breathes beneath a heavy load. When she did not answer--and when answered he knew himself by her silence--"There is only one thing I want to hear from you," he said. "Tell me it." Her voice was a whisper. "Oh, must you ask me that already?" He said stupidly: "But I have come back." She said: "O Percival, it is a long time." He had known her voice precise and cold--as icicles broken in a cold hand!--as was its habit and as he thrilled to hear it. He had known it faltering and atremble and scarcely to be heard when she was in his arms. Now there was a new note in it that he heard. There was a weary droop, as though she were tired. "But it is a long time," she said again. "I asked you not to leave me." He was trembling. "Tell me what has happened." Her reply was, "I asked you not to leave me, Percival." "You and--" There was a name he had difficulty in saying. He turned away and went a step, fighting for it among the scenes in which her words surrounded it. Then came to her again and pronounced it. "You and Rollo. Is it true?" "Yes, it is true." He said brokenly: "But I have held you in my arms. How can it be true? I have kissed you and you have kissed me and clung to me. You have loved me. I have come back for you. How can it be true?" Her face answered him. Beneath his words the crimson flamed as though in crimson blood it would burst upon her cheeks--flamed in those strange pools of colour where her colour lay, and drove her white as driven snow about them--flamed and called his own blood as flame bursts out of flame. He caught her in his arms. "You are mine! What has he done to you? Mine, mine, what has he dared?" She struggled and pressed her face away from his that approached it. "You must not! You must not! Percival, you must not!" "Ah, your voice, your voice tells me that you are mine!" he cried: and cried it again in revulsion of triumph over the unthinkable torment that had possessed him. "Your voice tells me!" and again in savagery of heat at a thought of Rollo, "Mine--your voice tells me you are mine!" The colour was gone from her face. She was so white and so still in his arms that he desisted the action of his face towards her, but held her close, close. There came from her lips: "No, no! you must not. It is wrong." "How can it be wrong? You say No, but your voice tells me. I have come back for you, my Dora." "Ah, be kind to me, Percival." "How should I be unkind to my darling?" He felt a tremor run through her. "You must not call me that, Percival. It should never have been. I thought you would forget."