He shook his head.

"It's conquered me, June. It's--it's torture!"

"It will be easier now she's gone away," she suggested.

"Gone away? . . . Aye, as far as London! And in five hours I could be
with her--see her again----"

He broke off. At the bare thought his heart was pounding against his
ribs, his breath labouring in his throat.

"Won't you try, Dan?" Even to herself June's voice sounded faint and far
away.

"It would be useless." He got up and strode aimlessly back and forth,
coming at last to a standstill in front of her. "A man knows his own
limits, June. And I've reached mine. England can't hold the two of us."

June gave a little stifled cry.

"What do you mean? You're not--you're not going to leave me? To go
abroad--now?"

There would be need for him in England soon--in a few months. But of
course he couldn't know that. Should she tell him. Tell him why he _must
not_ leave her now? Keep him with her by a sure and certain chain--the
knowledge that she was soon to be the mother of his child?

She debated the question wildly in her mind, tempted to tell him, yet
feeling that even if then he stayed with her it would not be because he
loved her or had ceased to care for Miss Vallincourt, but only because
he was impelled by a sense of duty. And her pride rebelled against
holding him by that.

His voice broke in upon her conflicting thoughts.

"Yes. I'm going abroad. It's the only thing, June. I can't stay in
England--and keep away from her."

June was silent a moment. Then she said in a very low voice, almost as
though speaking to herself:

"I wonder if--if you ever loved me."

He wheeled round, and the desperate misery in his eyes hurt her almost
physically.

"Yes," he said harshly. "I did love you. In a way, I do now. But it's
nothing--nothing to the madness in my blood! I'm a brute to leave you.
But I'm going to do it. No civilised country can hold me now!"

So that was to be the end of it! June recognised the bitter truth at
last. Magda had indeed robbed her of everything she possessed. And
robbed her wantonly, seeing that she herself set no value on Dan's
love--had, in fact, tossed it aside like an outworn plaything.

June ceased to plead with Dan then. She would not wish to hold him
by any other chain than his love for her. And if that chain had
snapped--broken irrevocably--then the child born of what had once
been love would only be an encumbrance in his eyes, an unwelcome tie,
shack