He stood rooted for a minute, looking as dumfounded as if an earthquake had rolled under him. Then with a quick turn he picked up her wrap, folded it round her, and took her into his arms. But it was a moment too late. He had hesitated, had not been there at the instant of her greatest need. Her midnight fears were fulfilled, just as her instinct had foretold. He was not glad. There in his arms her heart turned cold. He soon rallied; kissed her, comforted her, told her what a fool he had been; but all he said only confirmed her knowledge. “He is not glad. He is not glad,” her heart beat out over and over, as he talked. “Why did you not tell me sooner, darling? Why did you let me tire you like this?” he asked. Impossible to reply. “Why didn't you know?” her heart cried out, and, “I wasn't tired until to-day,” her lips answered. “But why didn't you tell me?” he urged. “I never even guessed. It was idiotic of me, but I was so absorbed in our love and my work that this never came to my mind.” “But at first, Stefan?” she questioned, probing for the answer she already knew, but still clinging to the hope of being wrong. “I never talked about it because you didn't seem to care. But in the beginning, when you proposed to me--the day we were married--at Shadeham--did you never think of it then?” Her tone craved reassurance. “Why, no,” he half laughed. “You'll think me childish, but I never did. I suppose I vaguely faced the possibility, but I put it from me. We had each other and our love--that seemed enough.” She raised her head and gazed at him in wide-eyed pain. “But, Stefan, what's marriage _for?_” she exclaimed. He puckered his brows, puzzled. “Why, my dear, it's for love--companionship--inspiration. Nothing more so far as I am concerned.” They stared nakedly at each other. For the first time the veils were stripped away. They had felt themselves one, and behold! here was a barrier, impenetrable as marble, dividing each from the comprehension of the other. To Stefan it was inconceivable that a marriage should be based on anything but mutual desire. To Mary the thought of marriage apart from children was an impossibility. They had come to their first spiritual deadlock. VIII Love, feeling its fusion threatened, ever makes a supreme effort for reunity. In the days that followed, Stefan enthusiastically sought to rebuild his image of Mary round the central fact of her maternity. He became inspired with the idea of painting her as a Madonna, and recalled all the famous artists of the past who had so glorified their hearts' mistresses. “You are named for the greatest of all mothers, dearest, and my picture shall be worthy of the name,” he would cry. Or he would call her Aphrodite, the mother of Love. “How beautiful our son will be--another Eros,” he exclaimed.