ens! Did you ever love him, I wonder,
that you're too proud to ask his forgiveness now--now when you know what
you've done?"

Diana's lips moved in a pitiful attempt at a smile.

"Oh, no," she said, shaking her head. "It's not that. I've . . . no
pride . . . left, I think. But I can't be mean--_mean_ enough to crawl
back now." She paused, then went on with an inflection of irony in her
low, broken voice. "'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.'
. . . Well, I'm reaping--that's all."

Like the keen thrust of a knife came Olga's answer.

"And must he, too, reap your sowing? For that's what it amounts to--that
Max must suffer for your sin. Oh! He's paid enough for others! . . .
Diana"--imploringly--"Max is leaving England to-night. Go back to him
now--don't wait until it's too late,"

"No." Diana spoke in dead, flat tones. "Can't you understand?"--moving
her head restlessly. "Do you suppose--even if he forgave me--that he
could ever believe in me again? He would never be certain that I really
trusted him. He would always feel unsure of me."

"If you can think that, then you haven't understood Max--or his love for
you," retorted Olga vehemently. "Oh! How can I make you see it? You
keep on balancing this against that--what you can give, what Max can
believe--weighing out love as though it were sold by the ounce! Max
loves you--_loves you_! And there _aren't_ any limitations to love!"
She broke off abruptly, her voice shaking. "Can't you believe it?" she
added helplessly, after a minute.

Diana shook her head.

"I think you mean to be kind," she said patiently. "But love is a
giving. And I--have nothing to give."

"And you're too proud to take."

"Yes . . . if you call that pride. I can't take--when I've nothing to
give."

"Then you don't love! You don't know what it means to love!
Diana"--Olga's voice rose in passionate entreaty--"for God's sake go to
him! He's suffered so much. Forget what people may think--what even he
may think! Throw your pride overboard and remember only that he loves
you and has need of you. _Go to him_!"

She ceased, and her eyes implored Diana's. No matter what may have been
her shortcomings--and they were many, for she was a hard, embittered
woman--at least, in her devotion to her brother, Olga Lermontof
approached very nearly to the heroic.

There was a long silence. At last Diana spoke in low, shaken tones, her
head bowed.

"I can't!" s