drew up a chair and sat close
to her.

"You are not angry about what I did last night?" he whispered.

She shook her head.

"I am grateful. I wanted to see you to tell you that, and how sorry I
am--so beastly sorry, George."

Her voice drifted away. It made him want his arms about her, made him
want her lips again. The room became a black and restless background for
this shadowy, desired, and forbidden figure.

Impulsively he slipped to his knees and placed his head against the side
of her chair. Across his hair he fancied a fugitive brushing of fingers.
She burst out with something of her former impetuous manner.

"I used to want that! Now you shan't!"

He arose, and she stooped swiftly forward, as if propelled objectively,
and, before he realized what she was doing, touched the back of his hand
with her lips.

She sprang upright and faced him from the mantel, more afraid than ever,
staring at him, her cheeks wet with tears.

"That's all," she whispered. "It's what I wanted to tell you. Please go.
We mustn't see each other again."

In the room he was aware only of her, but he knew, in spite of his own
blind instinct, that between them was a wall as of transparent and heavy
glass against which he would only break his strength.

"Sylvia," he whispered in spite of that knowledge, "I want to touch your
lips."

"They've never been anybody else's," she cried in a sudden outburst.
"Never could have been. I see that now. That's why I've hated you----"

"Yet you love me now. You do love me, Sylvia?"

"I love you, George," she said, wearily. "I think I always have."

"Then why--why----"

She turned on him, nearly angry.

"How can you ask that? You haven't forgotten that first day, either,
have you? You took something of me then, and I couldn't forget it. That
was what hurt and humiliated; I couldn't forget, couldn't get out of my
mind what you--one of the--the stablemen--had taken of me, Sylvia
Planter. And I thought you could never give it back, but last night you
did, and I----Everything went to pieces----And it had to be last night,
after I'd lost my temper. I see that. That's the tragedy of it."

"I don't quite understand, Sylvia."

She smiled a little through her tears.

"Betty would. Any woman would. You must go now--please."

"When will I see you again?" he asked.

"This way? Never."

"What nonsense! You'll get a divorce. You must."

She straightened. Her head went back.

"I won't lie tha