And the tide of the great temptation rose, and fell a little, and rose higher again each time, till it washed the fragile feet of the last good thought that lingered, taking refuge on the highest point above the waves. On and on it came, receding and coming back, higher and higher, surer and surer. Had she drawn back in time it would have been so easy. Had she turned and fled when the first moment of senseless joy was over, when she could still feel all the shame, and blush for all the abasement, it would have been over now, and she would have been safe. But she had learned to look upon the advancing water, and the sound of it had no more terror for her. It was very high now. Presently it would climb higher and close above her head. There were long intervals of silence now. The first rush of his speech had spent itself, for he had told her much and she had heard it all, even through the mists of her changing moods. And now that he was silent she longed to hear him speak again. She could never weary of that voice. It had been music to her in the days when it had been full of cold indifference--now each vibration roused high harmonies in her heart, each note was a full chord, and all the chords made but one great progression. She longed to hear it all again, wondering greatly how it could never have been not good to hear. Then with the greater temptation came the less, enclosed within it, suddenly revealed to her. There was but one thing she hated in it all. That was the name. Would he not give her another--her own perhaps? She trembled as she thought of speaking. Would she still have Beatrice’s voice? Might not her own break down the spell and destroy all at once? Yet she had spoken once before. She had told him that she loved him and he had not been undeceived. “Beloved--” she said at last, lingering on the single word and then hesitating. He looked into her face as he drew her to him, with happy eyes. She might speak, then, for he would hear tones not hers. “Beloved, I am tired of my name. Will you not call me by another?” She spoke very softly. “By another name?” he exclaimed, surprised, but smiling at what seemed a strange caprice. “Yes. It is a sad name to me. It reminds me of many things--of a time that is better forgotten since it is gone. Will you do it for me? It will make it seem as though that time had never been.” “And yet I love your own name,” he said, thoughtfully. “It is so much--or has been so much in all these years, when I had nothing but your name to love.” “Will you not do it? It is all I ask.” “Indeed I will, if you would rather have it so. Do you think there is anything that I would not do if you asked it of me?”