"I heard you last evening," Holland answered. "I was sitting outside the
summer-house. You said you loved him. You let him kiss you."

"You will forgive me," said Kitty. They were looking at each other like
two children. "I thought I loved him, because I was so unhappy, and he
is so dear and kind and loves me so much. I must love some one. I must
be loved. I was so lonely. And you seemed not to care at all any more.
You were only my husband, you weren't my lover.--And you don't know all.
He doesn't know it. But I know it now. And I must tell you
everything--all the dreadful weakness--you must understand it all.
Perhaps, if this hadn't come, perhaps, if you hadn't been given back to
me like this, I might have gone away with him, Nicholas. It wasn't that
I had ceased to love you; it was that I had to be loved and was weak
before love. It is dreadful;--I believe all women are like that. And I
did struggle, oh, I did. Nicholas, you will forgive me?"

"I knew it, dear, and I forgave you."

"You knew it? You loved me so much that you forgave?"

"That was why I told you, Kitty. I hadn't meant to tell you; I had meant
to keep it from you, this sadness, and to make our last month together a
happy one for you. I was coming back to you with such longing, dear. And
then I heard; and then I was afraid that you might go away before you
would be free."

"You loved me so much? You did it because you loved me so much?--Oh!
Nicholas--Nicholas!"

"That was why I said those horrible things. I wanted you to be happy. I
didn't think you could be more than a little sad when you knew that you
were going to be free. Foolish, darling Kitty--you are sure it's me you
do love?"

Again she could not speak, but it was her joy that made her silent. She
was no more to be disbelieved than an angel appearing in the vault,
irradiating the darkness. Flowers sprang beneath her footsteps; her
smile was life. And the memory of his own cynical vision of her smote
him with a self-reproach that deepened tenderness. She was only subtle,
only sinister, when shut away, unloved. She was womanly, meant for love
only, and her folly made her the more lovable. Love was all that was
left him. One month of love. His hands yielded to her hands; his eyes
answered her eyes. The fragrance of the flowers was in the air, the
flutter of heavenly garments. One month of life; but how flat, how mean,
how dusty seemed the arduous outer world of the last years; how deep the