"If I ever loved you?" he repeated. "There has never been any other woman in the world for me. There never will be." The utter, absolute conviction of his tones knocked at her heart, but fear and jealousy were stronger than love. "Then prove it!" she retorted. "Take me into your confidence; put Adrienne out of your life." "It isn't possible--not yet," he said wearily. "You're asking what I cannot do." She took a step nearer. "Tell me this, then. What did Olga Lermontof mean when she bade me ask your name? Oh!"--with a quick intake of her breath--"you _must_ answer that, Max; you _must_ tell me that. I have a _right_ to know it!" For a moment he was silent, while she waited, eager-eyed, tremulously appealing, for his answer. At last it came. "No," he said inflexibly. "You have no--right--to ask anything I haven't chosen to tell you. When you gave me your love, you gave me your faith, too. I warned you what it might mean--but you gave it. And I"--his voice deepened--"I worshipped you for it! But I see now, I asked too much of you. More"--cynically--"than any woman has to give." "Then--then"--her voice trembled--"you mean you won't tell me anything more?" "I can't." "And--and Adrienne? Everything must go on just the same?" "Just the same"--implacably. She looked at him, curiously. "And you expect me still to feel the same towards you, I suppose? To behave as though nothing had come between us?" For a moment his control gave way. "I expect nothing," he said hoarsely. "I shall never ask you for anything again--neither love nor friendship. As you have decreed, so it shall be!" Slowly, with bent head, Diana turned and left the room. So this was the end! She had made her appeal, risked everything on his love for her--and lost. Adrienne de Gervais was stronger than she! Hereafter, she supposed, they would live as so many other husbands and wives lived--outwardly good friends, but actually with all the beautiful links of love and understanding shattered and broken. * * * * * * "Since the first night of the play they've hardly said a word to each other--only when it's absolutely necessary." Joan spoke dejectedly, her chin cupped in her hand. Jerry nodded. "I know," he agreed. "It's pretty awful." He and Joan were having tea alone together, cosily, by the library fire. Diana had gone out to a singing-lesson, and Errington was shut up in his study attending to certain letters, written in cipher--letters which reached him frequently, bearing a foreign postmark, and the answers to which he never by any chance dictated to his secretary. "Surely they can't have quarrelled, just because he didn't come to the theatre with us that night," pursued Joan. "Do you think Diana could have been offended because he came down afterwards to please Miss Gervais?"