that I might possess you always.  So I had dreamed of love in a cottage—­an idyl of blissful poverty, where Cupid contents himself with crusts and kisses, and mocks at the proverbial wolf on the doorstep.  And I give you my word that until to-day I had not suspected how blindly selfish I have been!  For poor old prosaic Rudolph is in the right, after all.  Your delicate, tender beauty must not be dragged down to face the unlovely realities and petty deprivations and squalid makeshifts of such an existence as ours would be.  True, I would glory in them—­ah, luxury and riches mean little to me, my dear, and I can conceive of no greater happiness than to starve with you.  But true love knows how to sacrifice itself.  Your husband was right; it would not be fair to you, Patricia.”

“You—­you are going to leave me?”

“Yes; and I pray that I may be strong enough to relinquish you forever, because your welfare is more dear to me than my own happiness.  No, I do not pretend that this is easy to do.  But when my misery is earned by serving you I prize my misery.”  Charteris tried to smile.  “What would you have?  I love you,” he said, simply.

“Ah, my dear!” she cried.

Musgrave’s heart was sick within him as he heard the same notes in her voice that echoed in Anne’s voice when she spoke of her husband.  This was a new Patricia; her speech was low and gentle now, and her eyes held a light Rudolph Musgrave had not seen there for a long while.

“Ah, my dear, you are the noblest man I have ever known; I wish we women could be like men.  But, oh, Jack, Jack, don’t be quixotic!  I can’t give you up, my dear—­that would never be for my good.  Think how unhappy I have been all these years; think how Rudolph is starving my soul!  I want to be free, Jack; I want to live my own life,—­for at least a month or so—­”

Patricia shivered here.  “But none of us is sure of living for a month.  You’ve shown me a glimpse of what life might be; don’t let me sink back into the old, humdrum existence from a foolish sense of honor!  I tell you, I should go mad!  I mean to have my fling while I can get it.  And I mean to have it with you, Jack—­just you!  I don’t fear poverty.  You could write some more wonderful books.  I could work, too, Jack dear.  I—­I could teach music—­or take in washing—­or something, anyway.  Lots of women support themselves, you know.  Oh, Jack, we would be so happy!  Don’t be honorable and brave and disagreeable, Jack dear!”

For a moment Charteris was silent.  The nostrils of his beak-like nose widened a little, and a curious look came into his face.  He discovered something in the sand that interested him.

“After all,” he demanded, slowly, “is it necessary—­to go away—­to be happy?”

“I don’t understand.”  Her hand lifted from his arm; then quick remorse smote her, and it fluttered back, confidingly.

Charteris rose to his feet.  “It is, doubtless, a very spectacular and very stirring performance to cast your cap over the wind-mill in the face of the world; but, after all, is it not a bit foolish, Patricia?  Lots of people manage these things—­more quietly.”