To Vera and Maurice, locked in each other's arms, time had no shore, and life was not. It might have been ten seconds, it might have been an eternity--they could not have told--no pang entered that serene haven where their souls were lapped in perfect happiness; no serpent entered into Eden; no harsh note struck upon their enchanted ears, nor jarring sight upon their sun-dazzled vision. Where in that moment was the duty and the honour that was a part of the man's very self? What to Vera was the rich marriage and the life of affluence, and all the glitter and tinsel which it had been her soul's desire to attain? She remembered it not; like a house of cards, it had fallen shattered to the ground. They loved, and they were together. There was neither duty, nor faith, nor this world's wisdom between them; nothing but that great joy which on earth has no equal, and which Heaven itself cannot exceed. But brief are the moments whilst joy, with bated breath and folded wings, pauses on his flight; too soon, alas! is the divine elixir dashed away from our lingering lips. Already, for Maurice and for Vera, it is over, and they have awakened to earth once more. It is the man who is the first to remember. "Good God, Vera!" he cries, pushing her back from him, "what terrible misfortune is this? Can it be true that you must suffer too, that you love me?" "Why not?" she answered, looking at him; happy still, but troubled too; for already for her also Paradise is over. "Is it so hard to believe? And yet many women must have loved you. But I--I have never loved before. Listen, Maurice: when I accepted your brother, I liked him, I thought I could be very happy with him; and--and--do not think ill of me--I wanted so much to be rich; it was so miserable being poor and dependent, and I knew life so well, and how hard the struggle is for those who are poor. I was so determined I would do well for myself; and he was good, and I liked him." At the mention of the brother, whom he had wronged, Maurice hid his face in his hands and groaned aloud. She laid her hand softly upon his knee; she had half raised herself upon the seat by his side, and her head, from which her hat had fallen, pillowed itself with a natural caressing action against his shoulder. At the soft touch he shivered. "It was dreadful, was it not? But then, I am not perfect, and I liked the idea of being rich, and I had never loved--I did not even know what it meant. And then I met you--long ago your photograph had arrested my fancy; and do you remember that evening at Shadonake when I first saw you?" Could he ever forget one single detail of that meeting?