away, and she would go on as before. That was
all. She was scarcely aware how far they had traveled along that road
whereon travelers converse by glance of eye, by subtle intuitions,
eloquent silences. Monohan himself delivered the shock that awakened her
to despairing clearness of vision.

He had come to bring her a book, he and Linda Abbey and Charlie
together,--a commonplace enough little courtesy. And it happened that
this day Fyfe had taken his rifle and vanished into the woods
immediately after luncheon. Between Linda Abbey and Charlie Benton
matters had so far progressed that it was now the most natural thing for
them to seek a corner or poke along the beach together, oblivious to all
but themselves. This afternoon they chatted a while with Stella and then
gradually detached themselves until Monohan, glancing through the
window, pointed them out to his hostess. They were seated on a log at
the edge of the lawn, a stone's throw from the house.

"They're getting on," he said. "Lucky beggars. It's all plain sailing
for them."

There was a note of infinite regret in his voice, a sadness that stabbed
Stella Fyfe like a lance. She did not dare look at him. Something rose
chokingly in her throat. She felt and fought against a slow welling of
tears to her eyes. Before she sensed that she was betraying herself,
Monohan was holding both her hands fast between his own, gripping them
with a fierce, insistent pressure, speaking in a passionate undertone.

"Why should we have to beat our heads against a stone wall like this?"
he was saying wildly. "Why couldn't we have met and loved and been
happy, as we could have been? It was fated to happen. I felt it that day
I dragged you out of the lake. It's been growing on me ever since. I've
struggled against it, and it's no use. It's something stronger than I
am. I love you, Stella, and it maddens me to see you chafing in your
chains. Oh, my dear, why couldn't it have been different?"

"You mustn't talk like that," she protested weakly. "You mustn't. It
isn't right."

"I suppose it's right for you to live with a man you don't love, when
your heart's crying out against it?" he broke out. "My God, do you think
I can't see? I don't have to see things; I can feel them. I know you're
the kind of woman who goes through hell for her conceptions of right and
wrong. I honor you for that, dear. But, oh, the pity of it. Why should
it have to be? Life could have held so much that is fine