en a strange
thing happened. He began to speak again, and words rose to his lips, of
which, a moment before, he had had no idea, but which he now knew for
absolute truth. He said: "I don't want to excuse myself; I'm jealous, I
admit it. And yet there IS an excuse for me, Louise. For saying such
things to you, I mean. To-night I--Have you ever thought, dear, what a
difference it would make to us, if you had ... I mean if I knew ...
that you had never cared for anyone ... if you had never belonged to
anyone but me? That's what I wish now more than anything else in the
world. If I could just say to myself: no one but me has ever held her
in his arms; and no one ever will. Do you think then, darling, I could
speak as I have to-night?"

A moment back, he had had no thought of such a thing; now, here it was,
expressed, over his lips--another of those strange, inlying truths,
which were existent in him, and only waited for a certain moment to
come to light. Strangest of all, perhaps, was the manner in which it
impressed itself on him. In it seemed to be summed up his trouble of
the afternoon, his suspense and irritation of the later hours. It was
as if he had suddenly found a formula for them, and, as he stated it,
he was dumbfounded by its far-reaching significance.

A church-clock pealed a single stroke.

"Oh, yes, perhaps," said Louise, in a low voice. She could not rouse
herself to a very keen interest in his feelings.

"No, not perhaps. Yes--a thousand times yes! Everything would be
changed by it. Then I couldn't torment you. And our love would have a
certainty such as it can now never have."

"But you knew, Maurice! I told you--everything! You said it didn't
matter."

"And it doesn't, and never shall. But to make it undone, I would
cheerfully give years of my life. You're a woman--you can't understand
these things--or know what we miss. You mine only--life wouldn't be the
same."

For a moment she did not answer. Then the same toneless voice came out
of the darkness at his side. "But I AM yours only--now. And it's a
foolish thing to wish for the impossible."

VII.

It was, indeed, a preposterous thought to have at this date: no one
knew that better than himself. And as long as he was with Louise, he
kept it at bay; it was a fatuous thing even to allow himself to think,
considering the past, and considering all he knew.

But next morning, as he sat with busy fingers, and a vacant mind, it
returned. He