It dawned upon Stella Fyfe in the fullness of the season, when the first cool October days were upon them, and the lake shores flamed again with the red and yellow and umber of autumn, that she had been playing with fire—­and that fire burns.

This did not filter into her consciousness by degrees.  She had steeled herself to seeing him pass away with the rest of the summer folk, to take himself out of her life.  She admitted that there would be a gap.  But that had to be.  No word other than friendly ones would ever pass between them.  He would go 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 and true for you and me together.  For you do care, don’t you?”