"And you blame me because I couldn't see all this at once? Because it took me five years to love you? Remember, you were very cautious; you wouldn't let me see more than a bit at a time. But I love every bit of you--heart and soul, and body and brain; I love you as I never could love any other woman in the world--the world, Frida," he added, pointing the hackneyed phrase. "You _are_ the world." They had never stopped pacing the deck together, as they talked, turn after turn, alike and yet unlike in their eagerness and unrest. Now they stood still. Far off they could see the returning boat, a speck at the mouth of the harbor, and they knew that their time was short. "Maurice," she said, "before you go I have a confession to make. I wasn't quite honest with you just now when I said I only liked you five years ago. I know very well that I loved you. The world has taught me so much." The world! He frowned angrily as she said it. But through all his anger he admired the reckless nobility of soul that had urged her to that last admission, by way of softening the pangs and penalties she dealt to him. Would any other woman have confessed as much to the man who had once despised her, and now found himself in her power? She went on. "I thought you might like to know it. I've gone far enough, perhaps; but I'll go farther still. I believe I would give the world to be able to love you now." "Frida, if you can go as far as that----" "I can go no farther. No, Maurice, not one step." "You can. I believe, even now, I could make you love me." "No. You see, women in my position, my unfortunate position, want to be loved for themselves." "I do love you for yourself. Do you doubt that, too?" "I do not doubt it. I am quite sure of it. That's where it is. I know you love me for myself, and so many men have loved me--not for myself. Do you suppose that doesn't touch me? If anything could make me love you that would. And since it doesn't----" The inference was obvious. "Is it because you can't give up your life?" "It is--partly. And yet I might do that. I did it once." "You did, indeed. I can't conceive how you, being you, lived the life you did----" "I owed it. It was the price of my freedom." Her freedom! No wonder that she valued it, if she had paid that price! She went on dreamily, as if speaking more to herself than him. "To have power over your life--to do what you like with it--take it up or throw it down, to fling it away if that seems the best thing to do. You're not fit to take up your life if you haven't the strength to put it down, too."