'I remember saying that. I said it because I was afraid of myself. I was shaken by meeting you again. I thought you must be hating me--you had every reason to hate me, and you spoke as if you did--and I did not want to show you what you were to me. It wasn't true, Peter. Five years ago I may have thought it, but not now. I have grown to understand the realities by this time. I have been through too much to have any false ideas left. I have had some chance to compare men, and I realize that they are not all kind, Peter, even sometimes, when they happen to think of it.' 'Audrey,' I said--I had never found myself able to ask the question before--'was--was--he--was Sheridan kind to you?' She did not speak for a moment, and I thought she was resenting the question. 'No!' she said abruptly. She shot out the monosyllable with a force that startled and silenced me. There was a whole history of unhappiness in the word. 'No,' she said again, after a pause, more gently this time. I understood. She was speaking of a dead man. 'I can't talk about him,' she went on hurriedly. 'I expect most of it was my fault. I was unhappy because he was not you, and he saw that I was unhappy and hated me for it. We had nothing in common. It was just a piece of sheer madness, our marriage. He swept me off my feet. I never had a great deal of sense, and I lost it all then. I was far happier when he had left me.' 'Left you?' 'He deserted me almost directly we reached America.' She laughed. 'I told you I had grown to understand the realities. I began then.' I was horrified. For the first time I realized vividly all that she had gone through. When she had spoken to me before of her struggles that evening over the study fire, I had supposed that they had begun only after her husband's death, and that her life with him had in some measure trained her for the fight. That she should have been pitched into the arena, a mere child, with no experience of life, appalled me. And, as she spoke, there came to me the knowledge that now I could never do what I had come to do. I could not give her up. She needed me. I tried not to think of Cynthia. I took her hand. 'Audrey,' I said, 'I came here to say good-bye. I can't. I want you. Nothing matters except you. I won't give you up.' 'It's too late,' she said, with a little catch in her voice. 'You are engaged to Mrs Ford.' 'I am engaged, but not to Mrs Ford. I am engaged to someone you have never met--Cynthia Drassilis.' She pulled her hand away quickly, wide-eyed, and for some moments was silent. 'Do you love her?' she asked at last. 'No.' 'Does she love you?' Cynthia's letter rose before my eyes, that letter that could have had no meaning, but one. 'I am afraid she does,' I said. She looked at me steadily. Her face was very pale. 'You must marry her, Peter.' I shook my head. 'You must. She believes in you.' 'I can't. I want you. And you need me. Can you deny that you need me?' 'No.'