e me up for ever in a moment, wouldn't you?"

"Why do you ask these questions?" she said, almost fiercely.

"I want something for myself, something that's really mine. Then
perhaps----"

He stopped.

"Perhaps what?"

"Perhaps I could forget--sometimes."

"And yet when you knew Jimmy was coming here you wanted to go away. You
were afraid then. And even to-day--"

"I want one thing or the other!" he interrupted desperately. "I'm sick
of mixing up good and bad. I'm sick of prevarications and deceptions.
They go against my whole nature. I hate struggling in a net. It saps all
my strength."

"I know. I understand."

She put her arm round his neck.

"Perhaps I ought to give you up, let you go. I've thought that. But I
haven't the courage. Dion, I'm lonely, I'm lonely."

He felt moisture on his cheek.

"About you I'm absolutely selfish," she said, in a low, swift voice.
"Even if all this hypocrisy hurts you I can't give you up. I've told you
a lie--even you."

"When?"

"I said to you on _that_ night----"

She waited.

"I know," he said.

"I said that I hadn't cared for you till I met you in Pera, and saw
what _she_ had done to you. That was a lie. I cared for you in England.
Didn't you know it?"

"Once or twice I wondered, but I was never at all sure."

"It was because I cared that I wanted to make friends with your wife.
I had no evil reason. I knew you and she were perfectly happy together.
But I wanted just to see you sometimes. She guessed it. That was why she
avoided me--the real reason. It wasn't only because I'd been involved
in a scandal, though I told you once it was. I've sometimes lied to you
because I didn't want to feel myself humiliated in your eyes. But now
I don't care. You can know all the truth if you want to. You pushed
me away--oh, very gently--because of her. Did you think I didn't
understand? You were afraid of me. Perhaps you thought I was a nuisance.
When I came back from Paris on purpose for Tippie Chetwinde's party
you were startled, almost horrified, when you saw me. I saw it all so
plainly. In the end, as you know, I gave it up. Only when you went to
the war I had to send that telegram. I thought you might be killed, and
I wanted you to know I was remembering you, and admiring you for what
you had done. Then you came with poor Brayfield's letter----"

She broke off, then added, with a long, quivering sigh:

"You've made me suffer, Dion."

"Have I?"

He turned till he