the
great loneliness that lay before her. But she resisted the temptation
and only said:

"Do not think of me, Boris."

"You tell me not to think of you!" he said with an almost fierce wonder.
"Do you--do you wish me not to think of you?"

"What I wish--that is so little, but--no, Boris, I can't say--I don't
think I could ever truly say that I wish you to think no more of me.
After all, one has a heart, and I think if it's worth anything it must
be often a rebellious heart. I know mine is rebellious. But if you don't
think too much of me--when you are there--"

She paused, and they looked at each other for a moment in silence. Then
she continued:

"Surely it will be easier for you, happier for you."

Androvsky clenched his right hand on the divan and turned round till he
was facing her full. His eyes blazed.

"Domini," he said, "you are truthful. I'll be truthful to you. Till
the end of my life I'll think of you--every day, every hour. If it were
mortal sin to think of you I would commit it--yes, Domini, deliberately,
I would commit it. But--God doesn't ask so much of us; no, God doesn't.
I've made my confession. I know what I must do. I'll do it. You are
right--you are always right--you are guided, I know that. But I will
think of you. And I'll tell you something--don't shirk from it, because
it's truth, the truth of my soul, and you love truth. Domini--"

Suddenly he got up from the divan and stood before her, looking down at
her steadily.

"Domini, I can't regret that I have seen you, that we have been
together, that we have loved each other, that we do love each other for
ever. I can't regret it; I can't even try or wish to. I can't regret
that I have learned from you the meaning of life. I know that God has
punished me for what I have done. In my love for you--till I told
you the truth, that other truth--I never had a moment of peace--of
exultation, yes, of passionate exultation; but never, never a moment of
peace. For always, even in the most beautiful moments, there has been
agony for me. For always I have known that I was sinning against God and
you, against myself, my eternal vows. And yet now I tell you, Domini,
as I have told God since I have been able to pray again, that I am glad,
thankful, that I have loved you, been loved by you. Is it wicked? I
don't know. I can scarcely even care, because it's true. And how can I
deny the truth, strive against truth? I am as I am, and I am that. God
has mad