The light of the chandelier beneath which she was standing fell upon her averted face. The heaviness of her eyelids struck him; a crumpled ball of a handkerchief in her hand confirmed the betraying lids. “And I come in unexpectedly and find you crying. You would not have told me the cause of that either.” “I have no right to worry you,” she replied again. “I wish to God I had the right to make you,” he cried passionately, goaded by the insult offered her and by the evidence of her unhappiness. “I don’t think you do,” she said in a low voice. “I?” he queried. Taking her by the wrist, he impulsively led her to the sofa and seated her by his side. “This state of things cannot go on,” he said harshly. “We are losing each other. I must explain. I will tell you about that woman, the one you know of.” Irene started away from him, as though the word were a lash. “Is she between us? I don’t want to hear a breath of her. I won’t listen. What is she to me? Let us continue in the old way.” “We have come to the end of it,” said Hugh. “Do you love her?” she asked, fiercely. “I have every reason to hate and despise her,” said Hugh between his teeth. “You know very well that I love you with every fibre of my being.” Irene held him with her eyes. The few seconds seemed an incalculable time. “And you know that I love you with all my heart and soul. So why will you not take me?” she said slowly. He sprang to his feet. “You love me--like that?” The great wonder of glory that suddenly held his soul in awe, shone from his eyes, dazzling and confusing the woman, whose own lowered tremulously. “Like that?” he repeated. “Say it again.” “I have told you too much already,” she murmured. And then the woman’s tears and tenderness all gushed forth, and she raised swimming eyes to him.’ “Oh, Hugh dear, why did you make me tell you?” In a moment she was sobbing in his arms, clinging to him, yielding herself to the ecstatic solace. Half shamed, she drooped her head and hid her face against his breast, and he held her tightly to him. Then there was a long great silence. The woman’s heart drank thirstily of the intoxicating flood of happiness. But the man’s burned white hot in the stress of agonising conflict. She could not see his drawn face. His short sharp breathing only told her of emotion too deep for words. Its pain did not pierce through her bliss. Her fair head rested contentedly against the molten furnace. Through such brief, fierce, soul-scorching fires come the tremendous decisions of life. “Will you marry me, Irene?” he said at last. She moved her head for a moment, like a child. Then she raised it, and drew herself gently from him. “Do you know why I was crying--a woman is a fool, Hugh dear--when you came in?” “Why?” “I thought you did not want me. It was bitter. A turning of the tables.” “Since when have you loved me?” he asked. “I don’t know. Always, perhaps,” she replied, turning away. “It’s a question you must never ask me.”