"Life is full of mistakes," says Lauraine, weeping unrestrainedly now. "Oh, had I but known--had I but known! Yet, Keith, something tells me that time will bring you consolation--time and the consciousness that you have done right." "Your words are beyond my powers of acceptance," he answers gloomily. "If I am doing right now, it is from no good motive, I assure you. If again you said to me 'Stay,' there would be no more parting this side the grave, Lorry, for you and me." His voice is very low and unsteady, but she hears every word, and all the wild love and longing, the weariness and emptiness of her life, seem beating like waves against the poor weak barriers of honour. "I think I would give all the world to be able to say it to-day," she cries, with sudden passion. "But, oh, Keith! the 'to-morrow,' that would follow; the sin and misery that would be with us both for ever! Is life or love worth one's eternal ruin? Is our parting now to be compared to that 'other' parting that would have to follow--the eternal parting that would be so hopeless because of the guilt that lay upon our souls?" "I do not think a great love can ever be a sin," Keith answers passionately. "And mine would last you if ever human love did last. So much I know of myself, bad as I am." "You are not bad," says Lauraine gently. "And I am sure you won't threaten me with the worse misery of your recklessness as once before you did. The nobler and better your life, the less will be my suffering. And you won't be cruel enough to add to that, will you?" The pleading voice, the tearful eyes, unman him. "Why don't you abuse me, condemn me, call me the selfish brute I am?" he says, with that rapid contrition that so often marks his wildest moods. "No, Lorry, I won't be 'bad' if I can help it. I wouldn't wish to add to your suffering, though I am so selfish. Let me go now, while I have strength, while the good fit is on me. It mayn't last, you know, and then----" He is standing facing her, and white as death she looks up and meets the mournful gaze of the "bad blue eyes." There is no badness in them now, only a great anguish and a great despair. One long, long look they give--a look that seems to read her heart, and all its love that she denies, and all its suffering that he has given. He takes her hands and draws her near, nearer. She trembles like a leaf. Her eyelids droop, her lips quiver. "May I--kiss you?" he whispers. She makes no answer in words, for speech is beyond her. She forgets everything now, save that she loves, and that this is an eternal farewell to her lover. There comes such a moment of forgetfulness to all women who love, otherwise, indeed, there would be none to fall for love's sake only. Otherwise, how easy would be the conflict that, of all others is the wildest, the fiercest, and hardest to wage.