From the moment she had learned the truth about her husband, her thoughts had centred solely round herself, dwelling--in, all humility, it is true--but still dwelling none the less egotistically upon her personal failure, her own irreparable mistake, her self-wrought bankruptcy of all the faith and absolute belief a woman loves to give her lover. She had thrust these things before his happiness, whereas the stern and simple creed of love places the loved one first and everything else immeasurably second. But now, in this quickened moment of revelation, Diana knew that she loved Max utterly and entirely, that his happiness was her supreme need, and that if she let him go from her again, life would be henceforth a poor, maimed thing, shorn of all meaning. It no longer mattered that she had sinned against him, that she had nothing to bring, that she must go to him a beggar. The scales had fallen from her eyes, and she realised that in love there is no reckoning--no pitiful making-up of accounts. The pride that cannot take has no place there; where love is, giving and taking are one and indivisible. Nothing mattered any longer--nothing except that Max was here--here, within reach of the great love in her heart that was stretching out its arms to him . . . calling him back. The audience, ardently applauding her first song, saw her turn and give some brief instruction to her accompanist, who nodded, laying aside the song which she had just placed upon the music-desk. A little whisper ran through the assembly as people asked each other what song was about to be substituted for the one on the programme, and when the sad, appealing music of "The Haven of Memory," stole out into the room, they smiled and nodded to one another, pleased that the great singer was giving them the song in which they loved best to hear her. Do you remember Our great love's pure unfolding, The troth you gave, And prayed, for God's upholding, Long and long ago? Out of the past A dream--and then the waking-- Comes back to me Of love, and love's forsaking, Ere the summer waned. Ah! Let me dream That still a little kindness Dwelt in the smile That chid my foolish blindness, When you said good-bye. Let me remember When I am very lonely, How once your love But crowned and blessed me only, Long and long ago. There was no faltering now. The beautiful voice had never been more touching in its exquisite appeal. All the unutterable sweetness and humility and faith, the wistful memories, the passion and surrender that love holds, dwelt in the throbbing notes. To Max, standing a little apart, the width of the room betwixt him and the woman singing, it seemed as though she were entreating him . . . calling to him. . . .