words failed her.

"I see," he said at last. "You think out of my love for you I ought to
be willing to give you up. Is that it?"

She nodded mutely, not daring to look at him, still overwhelmed with
that shamed sense of doing him a wrong.

"I see," he said again. "And--if it would be for your happiness to let
you go--I might perhaps be equal to the sacrifice." His voice was
suddenly cynical, and she never guessed that he cloaked an unwanted
emotion therewith. "But take the other view of the case. You know you
would never be happy away from me."

"I couldn't be happy with you--now," she murmured.

He bent slightly towards her as if not sure that he had heard aright.
"Do you really mean that?" he asked.

She was silent.

"Olga!" he said insistently.

Against her will she raised her eyes, and met his close scrutiny.
Against her will she answered him, breathlessly, out of a fevered sense
of expediency. "Yes--yes, I do mean it! Oh, Max, you must--you must let
me go!"

But he held her still. "You have appealed to my love," he said. "I
appeal to yours."

But that was more than she could bear; the sudden tension snapped the
last shreds of her quivering strength. She broke down utterly, standing
there between his hands.

He made no attempt to draw her to him. Perhaps he did not wholly trust
himself. Neither did he let her go; but there was no element of cruelty
about him any longer. In silence, with absolute patience, he waited for
her.

She made a slight effort at last to free herself, and instantly he set
her free. She sat down again at the table, striving desperately for
self-control. But she could not even begin to speak to him, so choked
and blinded was she by her tears.

A while longer he waited beside her; then at length he spoke. "If you
really honestly feel that you can't marry me, that to do so would make
for misery and not happiness; if in short your love for me is dead--I
will let you go."

The words fell curt and stern, but if she had seen his face at the
moment she would have realized something of what the utterance of them
cost.

But her own face was hidden, her paroxysm of weeping yet shook her
uncontrollably.

"Is it dead?" he said, and stooped over her, holding the back of her
chair but not touching her.

She made a convulsive movement, whether of flinching from his close
proximity or protest at his words it was impossible to say.

He waited a moment or two. Then: "If it isn't," he sa