n? That's part of the
torture I've been enduring, the knowledge of the unforgivable nature of
my act. It can never be wiped out. It's black on my judgment book for
ever. But I wonder if you can understand--oh, I want you to understand,
Domini, what has made the thing I am, a renegade, a breaker of oaths,
a liar to God and you. It was the passion of life that burst up in me
after years of tranquillity. It was the waking of my nature after years
of sleep. And you--you do understand the passion of life that's in some
of us like a monster that must rule, must have its way. Even you in your
purity and goodness--you have it, that desperate wish to live really and
fully, as we have lived, Domini, together. For we have lived out in the
desert. We lived that night at Arba when we sat and watched the fire
and I held your hand against the earth. We lived then. Even now, when I
think of that night, I can hardly be sorry for what I've done, for what
I am."

He looked up at her now and saw that her eyes were fixed on him. She
stood motionless, with her hands joined in front of her. Her attitude
was calm and her face was untortured. He could not read any thought of
hers, any feeling that was in her heart.

"You must understand," he said almost violently. "You must understand
or I--. My father, I told you, was a Russian. He was brought up in the
Greek Church, but became a Freethinker when he was still a young man.
My mother was an Englishwoman and an ardent Catholic. She and my father
were devoted to each other in spite of the difference in their views.
Perhaps the chief effect my father's lack of belief had upon my
mother was to make her own belief more steadfast, more ardent. I think
disbelief acts often as a fan to the faith of women, makes the flame
burn more brightly than it did before. My mother tried to believe
for herself and for my father too, and I could almost think that she
succeeded. He died long before she did, and he died without changing his
views. On his death-bed he told my mother that he was sure there was no
other life, that he was going to the dust. That made the agony of his
farewell. The certainty on his part that he and my mother were parting
for ever. I was a little boy at the time, but I remember that, when he
was dead, my mother said to me, 'Boris, pray for your father every day.
He is still alive.' She said nothing more, but I ran upstairs crying,
fell upon my knees and prayed--trying to think where my fath