He made a quick gesture as if he would check either her words or her touch, and then suddenly he stiffened.  For in that instant there ran between them once again, vital, electric, unquenchable, that Flame that had kindled long ago on a morning of perfect summer, that Flame which once kindled burns on for ever.

It happened all in a moment, so swiftly that they were caught unawares in the spell of it, so overwhelmingly that neither for the space of several throbbing seconds possessed the volition to draw back.  And in the deep silence the man’s eyes held the woman’s irresistibly, yet by no conscious effort, while each entered the other’s soul and gazed upon the one supreme secret which each had mutely sheltered there.

It was to the man that full realization first came—­a realization more overwhelming than anything that had gone before, striking him with a stunning force that shattered every other emotion like a bursting shell spreading destruction.

He came out of that trance-like stillness with a gesture of horror, as if freeing himself from some evil thing that had wound itself about him unawares.

Her hands fell away from his shoulders instantly.  She was white to the lips.  She even for one incredible moment—­the only moment in her life—­shrank from him.  But that impulse vanished as swiftly as it came, vanished in a rush of passionate understanding.  For with a groan Bertrand sank forward and bowed his head in his hands.

“Mon Dieu!” he said.  “What have I done?”

She responded as it were instinctively, not pausing to choose her words, speaking in a quick, vehement whisper, because his distress was more than she could bear.

“It is none of your doing, Bertie.  You are not to say it—­not to think it even.  It happened long, long ago.  You know it did.  It happened—­it happened—­that day at Valpre—­the day you—­took me into your boat.”

He groaned again, his head dropping lower.  She knew that also!  Then was she woman indeed!

There followed a silence during which Chris remained kneeling beside him, but she was no longer agitated.  She was strangely calm.  A new strength seemed to have been given her to cope with this pressing need.  When at last she moved, it was to lay a hand that was quite steady upon his knee.

“Bertie,” she said, “listen!  You have done nothing wrong.  You have nothing to reproach yourself with.  It wasn’t your fault that I took so long to grow up.”  A piteous little smile touched her lips, and was gone.  “You have been very good to me,” she said.  “I won’t have you blame yourself.  No woman ever had a truer friend.”

He laid his hand upon hers, but he kept his eyes covered.  She could only see the painful twitching of his mouth under the slight moustache.

“Ah, Christine,” he said at last, with an effort, “I have tried—­I have tried—­to be faithful.”

“And you have never been anything else,” she said very earnestly.  “You were my preux chevalier from the very beginning, and you have done more for me than you will ever know.  Bertie, Bertie”—­her voice thrilled suddenly—­“though it’s all so hopeless, do you think it isn’t easier for me now that I know?  Do you think I would have it otherwise if I could?”