which exists
side by side with its passion.

"Don't look like that," he said hoarsely. "I'll--I'll go."

He crossed the room, reeling a little in his stride, and, unlocking the
door, flung it open.

She stared at him, incredulous relief in her face, while the tears still
slid unchecked down her cheeks.

"Max--" she stammered.

"Yes," he returned. "You're free of me. I don't suppose you'll believe
it, but I love you too much to . . . take . . . what you won't give."

A minute later the door closed behind him and she heard his footsteps
descending the stairs.

With a low moan she sank down beside the bed, her face hidden in her
hands, sobbing convulsively.

CHAPTER XXIII

PAIN

Summer had come and gone, and Diana, after a brief visit to Crailing,
had returned to town for the winter season.

The Crailing visit had not been altogether without its embarrassments.
It was true that Red Gables was closed and shuttered, so that she had
run no risk of meeting either her husband or Adrienne, but Jerry, in
the character of an engaged young man, had been staying at the Rectory,
and he had allowed Diana to see plainly that his sympathies lay
pre-eminently with Max, and that he utterly condemned her lack of faith
in her husband.

"Some day, Diana, you'll be sorry that you chucked one of the best
chaps in the world," he told her, with a fierce young championship that
was rather touching, warring, as it did, with his honest affection for
Diana herself. "Oh! It makes me sick! You two ought to have had such
a splendid life together."

Rather wistfully, Diana asked the Rector if he, too, blamed her
entirely for what had occurred. But Alan Stair's wide charity held no
room for censure.

"My dear," he told her, "I don't think I want to _blame_ either you or
Max. The situation was difficult, and you weren't quite strong enough
to cope with it. That's all. But"--with one of his rare smiles that
flashed out like sunshine after rain--"you haven't reached the end of
the chapter yet."

Diana shook her head.

"I think we have, Pobs. I, for one, shall never reopen the pages. My
musical work is going to fill my life in future."

Stair's eyes twinkled with a quiet humour.

"Sponge cake is filling, my dear, very," he responded. "But it's not
satisfying--like bread."

Since Diana had left her husband, fate had so willed it that they had
never chanced to meet. She had appeared very little in society,
excu