"Why not?" She lifted a face brave despite her tears. "It's true. Don't let's funk things. From the day I come to you till the day Hector sets me free I _shall_ be your mistress. You mustn't expect your mother or any one else to take a different view. But I'll be so happy, man; so much happier than I've ever been in my life before--if only you'll make it up with your mother. You will, won't you? Promise me." "Tell me," he whispered, and his lips trembled, "is this thing so vital to your happiness?" "Yes," she whispered back. "Then--it shall be as you wish." His arms were still round her; and she felt herself weakening--weakening. She felt herself all exhausted--all a limpness in his arms. "Sweetheart," his voice was hoarse in her ears, "don't go. I want you so much. Every day, every night without you is misery." "Ronnie--Ronnie! Don't tempt me----" Feverishly her ungloved hands fondled him; feverishly her arms looped his neck, drawing his face down to hers. She could see, under the gray-gold of his hair, the great vein throbbing on his forehead, the dart and pulse of passion in his eyes. His lips, trembling still, fastened on her mouth. The kiss was torment. Feverishly her mouth clung to his; feverishly, blent in ecstasy, fire feeding flame, they clung to one another--till, at last, half fainting, she tore herself away. "Don't!" she stammered. "Don't torture me, don't tempt me any more. Don't let me think--either now or ever--that this love of ours is only--only physical. Because, if I thought that, I'd kill myself." And a moment afterwards, she was gone. CHAPTER XII 1 Ponto the Dane, a piebald hummock of utter contentment, slapped his vast stern on the sands; woke; and rose to his haunches. At gaze into the sun-dazzle, Ponto's slitty eyes could just discern the twin rock buttresses of Chilworth Cove, the sea-water eddying translucent between them, and, forging through the sea-water, a man's head. White birds, which Ponto after one or two dignified experiments had decided uncatchable, strutted the beach or circled lazily round the buttresses. His mistress slept, sun-bonneted in her long deck-chair, a smile on her lips. "This," mused the great dog, "is a very pleasant place." "This," dreamed the great dog's mistress, "is paradise." Chilworth Cove lies far from the track of motor char-à-bancs in the unspoiled West Country. Inshore from its tongue of hot gold sands, the wild flowers riot; and back along the fritillary-haunted pathway through the wild flowers, Chilworth Ghyll leads to Chilworth Port--a handful of thatch-roofed, pink-washed cottages whereon the clematis spreads its purple stars and the honeysuckle droops coral clusters for the loudly-questing bee.