"I will not--It is shameful cruelty," and she clung to him, "that we must be parted now I am yours really--not John's at all. Everything in my heart and being cries out to you--you are the reality of my dream lover, your image has been growing in my vision for months. I love you, Denzil, and it is your right to stay with me now and take care of me, and it is my right to tell you of my thoughts about the--child--Ah! if you knew what it means to me, the joy, the wonder, the delight! I cannot keep it all to myself any longer. I am starving! I am frozen! I want to tell it all to my Beloved!" He held her to him again--and she poured forth the tenderest holy things, and he listened enraptured and forgot time and place. "Denzil," she whispered at last, from the shelter of his arms. "I have felt so strange--exalted, ever since--and now I shall have this ever present thought of you and love women in my existence--But how is it going to be in the years which are coming? How can I go on pretending to John?--I cannot--I shall blurt out the truth--For me there is only you--not just the you of these last days since we saw each other with our eyes--but the you that I had dreamed about and fashioned as my lover--my delight--Can I whisper to John all my joy and tenderness as I watch the growing up of my little one? No! the thing is monstrous, grotesque--I will not face the pain of it all. John gave you to me--he must have done so--it was some compact between you both for the family, and if I did not love you I should hate you now, and want to kill myself. But I love you, I love you, I love you!" and she fiercely clasped her arms once more about his neck. "You must take the consequences of your action. I did not ask to have this complication in my life. John forced it upon me for his own aims, but I have to be reckoned with, and I want my lover, I claim my mate." Her cheeks were flaming and her eyes flashed. "And your lover wants you," and Denzil wildly returned her fond caress, "but the choice is not left to me, darling, even if you were my wife, not John's. You have forgotten the war--I must go out and fight." All the warmth and passion died out of her, and she lay back on the pillows of the sofa for a moment and closed her eyes. She had indeed forgotten that ghastly colossus in her absorption in their own two selves. Yes--he must go out and fight--and John would go too--and they might both be killed like all those gallant partners of the season and her cousin, and those who had fallen at Mons and the battle of the Marne. No--she must not be so paltry as to think of personal things, even love. She must rise above all selfishness, and not make it harder for her man. Her little face grew resigned and sanctified, and Denzil watching her with burning, longing eyes, waited for her to speak.