“I don’t want to limp to the altar; were it not for the gout I’d say to-morrow....  But something has happened, something has forced you to this?”

He did not dare to suggest scruples of conscience.  But his thoughts were already back in Florence.

“Only that you often have said you’d like to marry me.  One never knows if such things are true.  It may have been mere gallantry on your part; on the other hand, I am vain enough to believe that perhaps you meant it.”  Then it seemed to her that she must be sincere.  “As I am determined that our present relations shall cease, there was no help for it but to come and tell you.”

Her eyes were cast down; the expression of her face was calm resolution, whereas his face betrayed anxiety, and the twitching and pallor of the eyes a secret indecision with which he was struggling.

“Then I suppose it is scruples of conscience....  You’ve been to Mass at St. Joseph’s.”

“We won’t enter into that question.  We’ve talked it for the last six years; you cannot change me.”

The desire to please was inveterate in her, and she felt that she had never been so displeasing, and she was aware that he was showing to better advantage in this scene than she was.  She wished that he had hesitated; if he had only given her some excuse for—­She did not finish the sentence in her mind, but thought instead that she liked him better when he wasn’t so good; goodness did not seem to suit him.

She wore a beautiful attractive gown, a mauve silk embroidered with silver irises, and he regretted his gout which kept him from the ball.  He caught sight of her as she passed down the glittering floor, saving with a pretty movement of her shoulders the dress that was slipping from them, he saw himself dancing with her....  They passed in front of a mirror, and looking straight over her shoulder his eyes followed the tremulous sparkle of the diamond wings which she wore in her hair.  Then, yielding to an impulse of which he was not ashamed, for it was as much affection as it was sensual, he drew over a chair—­he would have knelt at her feet had it not been for his gout—­and passing his arm about her waist, he said—­

“Dearest, I’m very fond of you, you know that.  It is not my fault if I prefer to be your lover rather than your husband.”  He kissed her on her shoulders, laying his cheek on her bosom.  “Don’t you believe that I am fond of you, Evelyn?”

“Yes, Owen, I think you are.”

“Not a very enthusiastic reply.  It used to be you who delighted to throw your arms about my neck.  But all that is over and done with.”

“One is not always in such humours, Owen.”

Watching each other’s eyes they were conscious of their souls; every moment it seemed as if their souls must float up and be discovered; and, while fearing discovery, there came a yearning to stand out of all shadow in the full light.  But they could not tell their souls; words fell back abortive; and they recognised the mortal lot of alienation; and rebelling against it, he held her face, he sought her lips, but she turned her face aside, leaving him her cheek.