"Frida, if you were my wife you wouldn't have to put it down. I'm not asking you to give up the world for me; I'm not even asking you to give up one day of your life. Your life would be exactly what it is now--plus one thing. You'll say, 'What can I give you that you haven't got?' I can give you what you've never had. You don't know what a man's love is and can be; and you must own that without that knowledge your experience, even as experience, is not quite as complete as it might be." The boat--the boat that was to take him to the shore--was getting nearer. It was his last chance. And while he staked everything on that chance, he thought of Frida as he had first seen her, as she sat tragically at the whist table at Coton Manor, dealing out the cards with deft and supple fingers. Now she was dealing out his fate. He remembered how she had said, "Mr. Durant wins because he doesn't care about the game." Because he cared--cared so supremely--was he going to lose? There were so many things in Frida that he had not reckoned with. She was an extraordinary mixture of impulse and reserve, and she had astonished him more than once by her readiness to give herself away; but beyond a certain point--the point of view in fact--her self-possession was complete. Still, he left no argument untried, for there was no knowing--no knowing what undiscovered spring he might chance to touch in that rich and subtle nature. Her self-possession was absolute. She parried his probe with a thrust. "It is your own fault if my experience isn't complete. You should have told me these things five years ago. As you say, nobody else has instructed me since." "I dare say they've done their best. Of course, other men have loved you----" "They haven't----" "But I believe my love would be worth more to you than theirs, for the simple reason that I understand you too well to insist on it. I should always know how much and how little you wanted. For we are rather alike in some ways. I would leave you free." "I know you would. I am sure. And I would--I would so gladly--but I can't! You see, Maurice, I _have_ loved you." "All the more reason----" "All the less. I knew what you thought and felt about me, and it made no difference; I loved you just the same, because I understood. Then I had to fight it. It was hard work, but I did it very thoroughly. It will never have to be done again. Do you see?" Yes; he saw very plainly. If Frida could not love him there was nobody but himself to blame. He also saw the advantage she had given him. She had owned that she had loved him, and he had hardly realized the full force of the pluperfect. What had been might be again. She was a woman in whom the primordial passion, once awakened, is eternal. He pressed his advantage home. "And why had you to fight so hard?" "Because the thing was stronger than myself, and I wouldn't be beaten. Because I hated myself for caring for you, as I hate myself now for not caring."