all its disguises it was only an exalted form of
the tyranny of sex. And Frida was making him see that there was
another way of looking at it--that a woman, like nature, like life,
may be an end in herself, to be loved for herself, not for what he
could make out of her.

"I am a woman of the world, a worldly woman, if you like. I love the
world better than anyone in it. And I'm a sort of pantheist, I
suppose; I worship the world. But you will always be a part of the
world I love and worship; I could not keep you out of it if I
would."

The exultation in her tone provoked his laughter. "Heaven bless
you--that's only a nice way of saying that I'm done for.

'He is made one with Nature; there is heard
His voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird.'

You _have_ made a clean sweep of me and my personal immortality."

The splash of the oars sounded nearer. They could hear the voices of
the crew; the boat, lightened of her first load, was returning with
horrible rapidity, it came dancing toward them in its malignant
glee; and they sat facing each other for the last time, tongue-tied.

They had paced the deck together again; one more turn for the last
time.

Durant was silent. Her confession was still ringing in his ears;
but it rang confusedly, it left his reason as unconvinced as his
heart was unsatisfied.

She _had_ loved him, and not in her way, as she called it, but in
his. And that was a mystery. He felt that if he could account for it
he would have grasped the clue, the key of the position. Whatever
she might say, these things were more than subtleties of the pure
reason, they were matters of the heart. He was still building a hope
beyond the ruins of hope.

"Frida," he said at last, "you are a wonderful woman, so I can
believe that you loved me. But, seeing what I was and what you knew
about me, I wonder why?"

Louder and nearer they heard the stroke of the oars measuring the
minutes. Frida's eyes were fixed on the boat as she answered.

"Why? Ah, Maurice, how many times have I asked myself that question?
Why does any woman love any man? As far as I can see, in nine
hundred cases out of a thousand woman is unhappy because she loves.
In the thousandth case she loves because she is unhappy."

The boat had arrived. The oars knocked against the yacht's side with
a light shock. Durant's hour was at an end.

Frida held out her hand. He hardly touched it,