"You are ungenerous to say that!" she exclaims. "I am not afraid of what any one says. I know I am to blame. But because I have erred once it is no reason that I should do so again. Right and wrong are set plainly enough before us. I have tried, feebly enough, to keep to the straight path; I cannot forget duty, honour, so easily. If I could--if I had--oh, Keith, ask yourself, would your love be what it is now?" "No; it would not," he says slowly. "Though I am so bitter against you I would not have you shamed by my selfishness. I--I think--so much at least you have taught me. But you--understand, do you not? I cannot do impossibilities, and--now at last, I come to you to say 'Good-bye.'" A sudden mist of tears dims her eyes. It seems as if all around grows cold and grey, and a barrier of ice stands between her and any hope of happiness. There is a long silence. He still leans there, his head on his hand, his face turned towards her as if to gaze his last on the beauty he loves and remembers with so absorbed and passionate a fidelity. Her eyes, amidst those blinding tears, meet his own longing gaze. She rises from her seat and holds out her hand, while her voice, broken and full of unutterable sadness, cries out: "Oh, Keith, what should I say--what should I do? May God have mercy on us both." "If you wish His mercy on _you_, don't cry," says Keith hoarsely, "or you will make me so desperate that I shall forfeit any little bit of kindness you may still feel! Be cold, cruel, scornful if you please, but don't drive me mad with sight of your sorrow. Mine I can bear--it is no new friend. But yours----" Lauraine dashes the tears from her eyes, and makes a violent effort at self-control. "I cannot ask you to forgive me," she says; "it would be better if you could learn to hate me. I wonder you do not, when you think of all the sorrow I have brought into your life." "I have tried my best to hate you," he says gloomily; "I _cannot_. Do you suppose that if, by any deed, any power of will, I could tear your memory from my heart, and once again know peace, that I would not do it? God knows how gladly! But I cannot; I must go on thinking of you, loving you----" He ceases abruptly, then goes on: "And once you put your arms round my neck and told me you would be mine 'for ever.' There are times now when I seem to feel that soft touch and the thrill of your unasked kiss, and--and then, Lorry, I remember that 'for ever' meant less than--four years." "You--you promised," falters Lauraine. "Yes, you are right. So I did. I seem to do nothing but make promises and break them with you. Well, there is one comfort, after to-day I shall have no chance of doing either one or other. There can be no distance too wide to set between our lives. And--oh God, to think of what might have been!"