she added, with one of her mocking gestures: "You see
from what a _milieu_ you are taking her!"

Durham groaned. "She will never give up her son!"

"How can she help it? After you are married there will be no
choice."

"No--but there is one now."

"_Now?_" She sprang to her feet, clasping her hands in dismay.
"Haven't I made it clear to you? Haven't I shown you your course?"
She paused, and then brought out with emphasis: "I love Fanny, and I
am ready to trust her happiness to you."

"I shall have nothing to do with her happiness," he repeated
doggedly.

She stood close to him, with a look intently fixed on his face. "Are
you afraid?" she asked with one of her mocking flashes.

"Afraid?"

"Of not being able to make it up to her--?"

Their eyes met, and he returned her look steadily.

"No; if I had the chance, I believe I could."

"I know you could!" she exclaimed.

"That's the worst of it," he said with a cheerless laugh.

"The worst--?"

"Don't you see that I can't deceive her? Can't trick her into
marrying me now?"

Madame de Treymes continued to hold his eyes for a puzzled moment
after he had spoken; then she broke out despairingly: "Is happiness
never more to you, then, than this abstract standard of truth?"

Durham reflected. "I don't know--it's an instinct. There doesn't
seem to be any choice."

"Then I am a miserable wretch for not holding my tongue!"

He shook his head sadly. "That would not have helped me; and it
would have been a thousand times worse for her."

"Nothing can be as bad for her as losing you! Aren't you moved by
seeing her need?"

"Horribly--are not _you?_" he said, lifting his eyes to hers
suddenly.

She started under his look. "You mean, why don't I help you? Why
don't I use my influence? Ah, if you knew how I have tried!"

"And you are sure that nothing can be done?"

"Nothing, nothing: what arguments can I use? We abhor divorce--we go
against our religion in consenting to it--and nothing short of
recovering the boy could possibly justify us."

Durham turned slowly away. "Then there is nothing to be done," he
said, speaking more to himself than to her.

He felt her light touch on his arm. "Wait! There is one thing
more--" She stood close to him, with entreaty written on her small
passionate face. "There is one thing more," she repeated. "And that
is, to believe that I am deceiving you again."

He stopped short with a bewildered stare. "That you are deceiving