“Yvonne,” he cried hoarsely, his pulses throbbing like a great engine’s piston-rod, in the tremendous amazement, as he held her--how tightly he did not know--and gazed down wildly into her face, “Yvonne, what are you saying? What is it? Tell me--for God’s sake--the marriage--Everard?” Then she threw back her head further against his arm, and their eyes met and hung upon each other for a breathless space. And there was that in Yvonne’s eyes--“the light that never was on sea or land”--that no man yet had seen or dreamed of seeing there. The straining, passionate love too deep for smiling, glorified her pure face. “There will be no marriage,” she murmured faintly, still holding him with her eyes, “I went to Everard this morning.” She raised her lips almost unconsciously toward him, and then the man’s whole existence was drowned in the kiss. For many moments they scarcely spoke. Passion plays its part in swift burning utterances and tumultuous silences. At last, she freed herself gently and moved towards the fire. But only to be taken once again into his clasp. “Oh, my darling, my darling, is this joy madness, or is it real?” “It is real,” said Yvonne. “Nothing can ever part us, until we die.” He helped her off with her hat and jacket and led her to the great armchair by the fire and knelt down by her side. “Oh, Stephen dear,” she said in piteous happiness, “it has been such suffering.” “My poor child,” he said tenderly. “I did n’t know that you cared about me--in this way--until last night. I tried to make you tell me--Stephen darling, why didn’t you? I was bound to go to Everard--I had promised, and he wanted me--and what could I tell him? I could n’t say to him, dear, that I would go on for ever living on your dear charity, a burden upon you--yes, in a sense I must be one--rather than keep my promise and marry him, could I, dear? I could only refer him to you--and when you said I must go, it was miserable, for I hungered all the time to stay. And I knew you were sad, it was natural--but I thought you found you did not love me enough to want me as a wife and felt it your duty to give me up. Why did you give me up when you loved me so?” “I will tell you all, some day, dear, not now,” said Joyce. “But one thing--I did not know either that you loved me--like this. When did you begin to love me, Yvonne?” “I think I must have begun in the years and years ago--but I only knew it last night--knew it as I do now,” she added, with a tremor in her voice. She closed her eyes, gave herself up for a flooded moment to the lingering sense of the first great kiss she had ever given. And before she opened them, the memory had melted into actuality as she felt his lips again meet hers.