sulting me. I don't think
you can intend to do that. And I should like to say also that you, of
all the men in the world, are the last person to be jealous or
suspicious of anybody where I am concerned."

She hadn't meant to say that; but when she saw that he took it as a
commonplace of marital ethics, she determined to go further still.

He took it, in fact, just so. It seemed to him what any wife would say
to any indignant husband. "I beg your pardon," he said, "you don't
quite follow me. I agree with you that I should be the last person;
but I beg to point out to you that I should also be the first person.
And I will go on to add, if you will excuse me, that I should be the
only person."

"No person at all," said Lucy, "has the right or the reason to suspect
me of anything, or to be jealous of any of my acquaintance. You didn't
understand me: I suppose because you are too angry. What I meant you
to remember was how much, how very much, you are bound to believe in
me--now of all times in our life."

Here then was a Psyche with the lamp in her hand. Here was Lucy on the
limit of a world unknown. Here she stood, at her feet the tufted
grasses and field herbs, dusty, homely, friendly things, which she
knew. Beyond her, beyond the cliff's edge were the dim leagues of a
land and sea unknown. What lay out there beyond her in the mist? What
mountain and forest land lay there, what quiet islands, what sounding
mains?

But it was done now. James gazed blankly, but angrily, puzzled into
her face.

"I haven't the faintest notion what you mean," he said. Evidently he
had not.

She must go on, though she hated it. "You are very surprising. I can
hardly think you are serious. Let me remind you of the opera--of the
_Walkuere_."

He gave his mind to it, explored the past, and so entirely failed to
understand her that he looked rather foolish. "I remember that we were
there." Then he had a flash of light--and shed it on her, God knows.
"I remember also that Lingen was in the box."

"Oh, Lingen! Are you mad on--? Do you not remember that you were there
before Lingen?"

"Yes, I do remember it." He stood, poor fool, revealed. Lucy's voice
rang clear.

"Very well. If that is all that your memory brings you, I have nothing
more to say."

She left him swiftly, and went upstairs in the possession of an
astounding truth, but rapt with it in such a whirlwind of wonder that
she could do no more than clutch it to her bosom as s