"Clive!" she faltered: he swung on his heel and caught her to him

again.

She offered no resistance.

She was crying, now,--weeping perhaps for all that had been said--or

remained unsaid--or maybe for all that could never be said between

herself and this man in whose arms she was trembling. No need now for

any further understanding, for excuses, for regrets, for any tardy

wish expressed that things might have been different.

He offered no explanation; she expected none, would have suffered

none, crying there silently against his shoulder. But the reaction was

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already invading him; the tide of self-contempt rose.

He said bitterly: "Now that I've done all the damage I could, I shall

have to go--or offer--"

"There is no damage done--yet--"

"I have made you love me."

"I--don't know. Wait."

Wet cheek against his shoulder, lips a-quiver, her tragic eyes looked

out into space seeing nothing yet except the spectre of this man's

unhappiness.

Not for herself had the tears come, the mouth quivered. The flash of

passionate emotion in him had kindled in her only a response as

blameless as it was deep.

Sorrow for him, for his passion recognised but only vaguely

understood, grief for a comradeship forever ended now--regret for the

days that now could come no more--but no thought of self as yet,

nothing of resentment, of the lesser pity, the baser pride.

If she had trembled it was for their hopeless future; if she had wept

it was because she saw his boyhood passing out of her life like a

ghost, leaving her still at heart a girl, alone beside the ashes of

their friendship.

As for marriage she knew it would never be--that neither he nor she

dared subscribe to it, dared face its penalties and its punishments;

that her fear of his unknown world was as spontaneous and abiding as

his was logical and instinctive.

There was nothing to do about it. She knew that instantly; knew it

from the first;--no balm for him, no outlook, no hope. For her--had

she thought about herself,--she could have entertained none.

She turned her head on his shoulder and looked up at him out of

pitiful, curious eyes.

"Clive, must this be?"

"I love you, Athalie."

Her gaze remained fixed on him as though she were trying to comprehend

him,--sad, candid, searching in his eyes for an understanding denied

her.

"Yes," she said vaguely, "my thoughts are full of you, too. They have

always been since I first saw you. I suppose it has been love. I

didn't know it."




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