"Denzil, it is altogether unnatural that you should have to go. To think that you must leave me, and may not even welcome your son! To think that by the law we are sinning, because I am sitting here clasped in your arms! To think that I may not have the joy of showing you the exquisite little clothes, and the pink silk cot--all the things which have given me such pleasure to arrange.... It is all too cruel! You know that eighteenth century engraving in the series of Moreau le Jeune, of the married lovers playing with the darling, teeny cap together! Well, I have it beside my bed, and every day I look at it and pretend it is you and me!" "Darling--Darling!"--and Denzil fiercely kissed her, he was so deeply moved. "It is all holy and beautiful, the coming to earth of a soul. It only makes me long to be good and noble and worthy of this wonderful thing. But for us--we who love truly and purely, it has all been turned into something forbidden and wrong." "Heart of me--I must have some news of you. I cannot starve there in the trenches, knowing that all the letters that should be mine are going to John. My mother is really trustworthy, will you let her be with you as often as you can, that she may be able to tell me how you are, precious one? When the seventh of May comes I shall go perfectly mad with suspense and anxiety. I will arrange that my mother sends me at once a telegram." "Denzil!" and Amaryllis clung to him. "It is an impossible situation," and he gave a great sigh. "I shall tell John that I have seen you--I cannot help it, the times are too precarious to have acted otherwise. And afterwards, when the war is over, we must face the matter and decide what is best to be done." "_I_ cannot live without you, Denzil, and that I know." They said good-bye at last silently, after many kisses and tears, and Denzil came out into the darkening street to his mother in the motor, with white, set face. "I am a little troubled, dearest boy," she whispered, as they went along. "I feel that there is something underneath all this and that Amaryllis means some great thing in your life--the whole aspect of everything fills me with discomfort. It is unlike your usual, sensitive refinement, Denzil, to have gone to see her--now--" "I understand exactly what you mean, Mother. I should say the same thing myself in your place. I can't explain anything, only I beg of you to trust me. Amaryllis is an angel of purity and sweetness; perhaps some day you will understand." She took his hand into her muff and held it: "You know I have no conventions, dearest, and my creed is to believe what you say, but I cannot account for the situation because of your only having met Amaryllis so lately for the first time. I could understand it perfectly if you had been her lover, and the child was your child, but she has not been married a whole year yet to John!" Denzil answered nothing--he pressed his mother's hand. She returned the pressure: