Her eyes were on him, but he saw nothing but the ruin of the ideal idea, and an odd little curve crept about her mouth. Perhaps it was from an odd little curve like that about the lips of a young princess of olden time that there sprang the many tales of young princesses who loved yet lashed their lovers. It was not contemptuous, it was much too little a curve for that. It was supremely dignified. Mona Lisa has it, though some say that Mona Lisa smiles. If Mary Stuart had seen the portrait of Mona Lisa she would have whispered: “She is thinking that men are but minutes in a woman’s life, and she is right.” “Hugo!” But when he looked at her it was as though he was still looking at ruins. “It is not fair to us to say we’ve killed him. And it’s childish. Life killed him, Hugo! And you are not more sorry than I--who have tried so hard for eight years to make life sweet for him. Oh, my God, how I’ve tried!” He thought out aloud, softly: “You are a marvellous woman, Joan!” “It’s only,” she said gently, “that I know what is worth while to me and you don’t. That must make life very difficult for you....” That is all she said, and Hugo Carr stared at her, bewilderment joining the fever in his eyes. “What do you mean, Joan?” he asked, miserably bewildered. Hugo Carr couldn’t bear not understanding things. A few yards separated them; and Joan crossed swiftly to him, and she took his arm and held it very tight. Some people said that Joan’s hands were almost too thin, but what they held they held very tightly. “Listen to me, Hugo--for if this mood of yours isn’t met now, in this horrible moment, it may ruin our lives----” “_May_ ruin!” But she held his arm tight. “Yes, dear, this is ruin--but why won’t you face facts, why won’t you face the bogey that life has shaped to frighten us, why won’t you see that this is the culminating point of three ruined lives and that on the ruins of three lives we must now build a city for two? It won’t be a very fair city, Hugo, but it’s ours by right, by the only real right in this wrong world--the right of misery....” Now the eyes of a man who sees a wraith are more frightening than the wraith that he sees. That is why Joan Loyalty left her sentence in the air, for it had been snapped by his stare. “But aren’t you--sorry?” he whispered dryly. And she laughed--her nerves laughed through her mouth. “Sorry! _You_ dare to ask me if I am sorry! Oh, Hugo, is it absolutely necessary for the love of a man for a woman to be expressed in fatuous questions? Oh, God, what kind of thing is this love that it tricks a mind into loving a man!” “I don’t know what you mean ...” he muttered sulkily. Hugo Carr couldn’t bear not understanding things.