isguise her feeling and he would see through
her disguise. He would know. There could never be any disguise, any
illusion between her and him. But at least he could take her in his
arms and hold her now, while her tears fell; she would be his for this
moment that was now.

He searched her face to see if indeed there had been any illusion.
Through the tears that veiled her eyes he could not see whether it
were love or pity that still shone in them; but because of the tears
he thought it must be pity.

She went on. "You said I had taken the best years of your life--I
would like to give you all mine, instead, such as it is--if you'll
take it."

She said it quietly, so quietly that he thought that she had spoken so
only because she did not love him.

"How can I take it--now, in this way?"

(Her tears stopped falling suddenly.)

"I admit that I made a gross appeal to your pity."

"My pity?"

"Yes, your pity." His words were curt and hard because of the terrible
restraint he had to put upon himself. "I did it because it was the
best argument. Otherwise it would have been abominable of me to have
said those things."

"I wasn't thinking of anything you said, only of what you've done."

"I haven't done much. But tell me the truth. Whether would you rather
I had done it for your sake or for mere honour's sake?"

"I would rather you had done it for honour's sake." She said it out
bravely, though she knew that it was the profounder confession of her
feeling. He, however, was unable to take it that way.

"I thought so," he said. "Well, that _is_ why I did it."

"I see. I wanted to know the truth; and now I know it."

"You don't know half of it--" His passion leapt to his tongue under
the torture, but he held it down. He paused, knowing that this moment
in which he stood was one of those moments which have the spirit and
the power of eternity, and that it was his to save or to destroy it.
So admirable indeed was his control that it had taken their own
significance from his words, and she read into them another meaning.
Her face was white with terror because of the thing she had said; but
she still looked at him without flinching. She hardly realized that he
was going, that he was trying to say good-bye.

"I will take the books--if you can keep them for me a little while."

Some perfect instinct told her that this was the only way of atonement
for her error. He thanked her as if they had been speaking of a
triflin