ed at all
for myself. You were my life; my life lived in you. Every time I went to
see you, every appointment was a thrill, a wonder, a mystery. But it was
not until you took me back after that separation at Florence that I sank
into the depths of love. Then I became like a diver in the deep sea.
What I had known before were but the shallows of passion. What I felt
after Florence was the translucid calm of the ocean's depth. I lived in
the light of an inner consciousness, seeing you always, your face always
before me, and my whole being held in a rapt devotion, a
self-sufficiency, an exaltation beyond the reach of words. Oh, Evelyn, I
have been extraordinarily in love. But all this is nothing to you; it
even bores you."

"No, Owen, no, but you don't understand."

The desire to tell him the truth came up in her throat, but the moment
she sought to express it in words it became untruth, and it was to save
herself from falsehood that she remained silent.

"I knew my mistake, but the temptation was irresistible. I wanted so to
tell you that I loved you. I could not deny myself, effusion, tears,
aspiration. I gained two very wonderful years, and so I lost you. I
wonder if any lover would have the courage to forswear these joys so
that he might retain his mistress? Would any mistress be worthy of the
sacrifice? 'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.'"

"Owen, dear, you're very cruel. Why do you speak like that? I shall
never cease to love you. Owen, dear, you don't hate me?" she said,
turning towards him.

The silence was intense. It seemed to enter her ears and eyes like water
or fire, and with dim sight and a dissolution of personal control of her
body, she was moved towards him, and without any sort of thrill of
desire she was drawn, almost thrown at his feet.

She accepted his kisses wearily. There was a strange look in her eyes
which he could not interpret, and she could not confide her secret, and
there was an inexpressible sadness in these last kisses, and Owen's
heart seemed to stand still when he said,--

"Her last wish was our marriage; she would be glad if she could see us."

Evelyn hid her face on his shoulders several times. He thought she was
weeping, but her eyes remained dry. He came to her room that evening,
and now that they were lovers again, it seemed to him impossible that
she could refuse to marry him. But she stood looking at him, absorbed,
in the presence of her future life, her