of love that had been denied to her
own royal beauty. This other woman was the ephemeral incarnate, the
thing for which men gave their lives. She was nothing; and therefore
every man would see in her the reflection of what he desired.

"I have the right," she answered desperately, without pride and without
shame. "I had the right before I got my divorce--"

"I understand," said Corinna, and her voice was scarcely more than a
breath. Though she did not withdraw the hand that the other had taken,
she looked away from her through the French window, into the garden
where the twilight was like the bloom on a grape. The fragrance became
suddenly intolerable. It seemed to her to be the scent not only of
spring, but of death also, the ghost of all the sweetness that she had
missed. "I shall never be able to bear the smell of spring again in my
life," she thought. She had made no movement of surprise or resentment,
for there was neither surprise nor resentment in her heart. There was
pain, which was less pain than a great sadness; and there was the
thought that she was very lonely; that she must always be lonely. Many
thoughts passed through her mind; but beyond them, stretching far away
into the future, she saw her own life like a deserted road filled with
dead leaves and the sound of distant voices that went by. She could
never find rest, she knew. Rest was the one thing that had been denied
her--rest and love. Her destiny was the destiny of the strong who must
give until they have nothing left, until their souls are stripped bare.
"He must have cared for you," she said at last. Oh, how empty words
were! How empty and futile!

"He could never care again like that for any one else," replied Alice,
reaching out her hand as if she were pushing away an object she feared.
"Whatever he thinks now, he could never care that much again."

Whatever he thinks now! A smile tinged with bitter knowledge flickered
on Corinna's lips for an instant. After all, how little, how very little
she knew of John Benham. She had seen the face he turned to the world;
she had seen the crude outside armour of his public conscience. A laugh
broke from her at the phrase because she remembered that Vetch had first
used it. This other woman had entered into the secret chamber, the
hidden places, of John Benham's life; she had been a part of the light
and darkness of his soul. To Corinna, remembering his reserve, his
dignity, his moderation in thought and