e felt a coward to all
of life that offered. Her heart was that of a derelict--numbed, inert,
no spirit left in it--just lifting its head with sluggish weariness
above the body of the waves. But simply out of love for him she could
not bear to see him annoyed by her suffering.

"You needn't hurry to go," she said finely; "I shan't make a fool
of myself--the way you think. I shan't be a drag on you--I promise
you that. And if you're going to-morrow, wouldn't you stop just a
little while and talk?"

At any other moment the simplicity of that would have touched him;
but the affection that Devenish had seen to be tiring had been
snapped--a thread in a flame--when he had found her watching his
actions, dogging his footsteps. His liberty--that which a man of his
type most prizes when he finds it being encroached upon--had been
threatened. There was no forgiveness in the heart of him for that.
In the sudden freedom of his affections--just as Mrs. Durlacher had
so deftly anticipated--he had let them drift--a moth to the nearest
candle, a floating seed to the nearest shore--and Coralie
Standish-Roe had claimed them.

"Can anything be gained by talking?" he asked, quietly.

"Yes--perhaps it's the last time."

"But nothing can be gained by it. You'll only make yourself more
miserable. What is the good of that?"

"Do you think I could be more miserable?" she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

This scarcely, without seeking defence for Traill, is the most
difficult part for a man to play well. He had never offered, in the
first beginning of their acquaintance, to deceive her. He was not
a man who had respect for marriage, he had said quite honestly. He
had told her to go--have no truck with him; and if she had gone, if
she had not taken upon herself to return his present, he would have
seen no more of her. She had known of his love of liberty, and she
herself had threatened it; yet now, seemingly, he was playing a mean
part, deserting her, casting her off, when she loved him with every
breath her trembling lips drew through her body. It is hard to play
such a part well. Even the least sensitive of men, conscious of their
own cruelty, will seek to end it as quickly as may be. Wherefore,
how could he be expected to see the good gained by staying and
talking? What good, in God's name, did talking do? With the agony
prolonged, the strain drawn out, how were they--either of them--to
benefit? Here, indeed, is a judgment of the