“I daresay you still care for me a little, as the rank and file of people love.  What right had I, of all people, to expect a love so rare and beautiful as yours to last?  It had to burn out, like a great fire, as such love always does.  The experience of the world has proved it.”

“Oh!” she cried, and her body was rocking.  If he did not stop, she would weep herself to death.

“Yes, it seems sad,” Tommy continued; “but if ever man knew that it served him right, I know it.  And they maintain, the wiseacres who have analyzed love, that there is much to be said in favour of a calm affection.  The glory has gone, but the material comforts are greater, and in the end—­”

She sank upon the ground.  He was bleeding for her, was Tommy.  He went on his knees beside her, and it was terrible to him to feel that every part of her was alive with anguish.  He called her many sweet names, and she listened for them between her sobs; but still she sobbed.  He could bear it no longer; he cried, and called upon God to smite him.  She did not look up, but her poor hands pulled him back.  “You said I do not love you the same!” she moaned.

“Grizel!” he answered, as if in sad reproof; “it was not I who said that—­it was you.  I put into words only what you have been telling me for the last ten minutes.”

“No, no,” she cried.  “Oh, how could I!”

He flung up his arms in despair.  “Is this only pity for me, Grizel,” he implored, looking into her face as if to learn his fate, “or is it love indeed?”

“You know it is love—­you know!”

“But what kind of love?” he demanded fiercely.  “Is it the same love that it was?  Quick, tell me.  I can’t have less.  If it is but a little less, you will kill me.”

The first gleam of sunshine swept across her face (and oh, how he was looking for it!).  “Do you want it to be the same—­do you really want it?  Oh, it is, it is!”

“And you would not cease to love me if you could?”

“No, no, no!” She would have come closer to him, but he held her back.

“One moment, Grizel,” he said in a hard voice that filled her with apprehension.  “There must be no second mistake.  In saying that love, and love alone, brought you back, you are admitting, are you not, that you were talking wildly about loss of pride and honour?  You did the loveliest thing you have ever done when you came back.  If I were you, my character would be ruined from this hour—­I should feel so proud of myself.”

She smiled at that, and fondled his hand.  “If you think so,” she said, “all is well.”

But he would not leave it thus.  “You must think so also,” he insisted; and when she still shook her head, “Then I am proud of your love no longer,” said he, doggedly.  “How proud of it I have been!  A man cannot love a woman without reverencing her, without being touched to the quick a score of times a day by the revelations she gives of herself—­revelations of such