“But you make a mistake,” he said gently.  “There is no sin in love—­so long as it is love and nothing else.  A good many sins masquerade in the form of love, but love itself—­what you and I call love—­is sinless.  And it is that—­and that alone—­that can never die.”  He paused a moment, and his hand ceased to stroke her bright hair and became still.  “It is bad enough,” he said, his voice sunk very low, “that I could ever misunderstand you; but, my dear, don’t make things harder by misunderstanding yourself.”

She moved at that as though it touched her very nearly, and suddenly she slipped from his arms, and knelt beside him.  “Trevor,” she said, with quivering lips, “don’t be too kind to me!  I can’t bear it.”

He looked down at her very sadly.  “It would be a new experience for you, my Chris, if I were,” he said.

“No—­no.”  She bent her face quickly, and laid it against his hand.  “I’ve deceived you a hundred times—­yes, and lied to you.  You bore with me over and over again, even when you knew I wasn’t being straight.  You did your very utmost to keep me true.  You trusted me even when you knew I was cheating.  Oh, I don’t wonder that I killed your love at last.  The wonder was that it lived so long.”

She stopped, for his hand had clenched upon itself at her words.  But he said nothing.  He seemed to be waiting for her to continue.  She went on quickly—­

“I know you feel you must be kind to me now because”—­she caught her breath—­“Bertie is gone, and he wished it so.  But—­but—­I shan’t expect—­a great deal.  I—­I shall be quite grateful—­if I may have—­a little friendship.  I don’t want you to think that—­that—­”

“That you want my love?” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” She looked up at him in distress, but she could not see his face with any distinctness.

His elbow was on the arm of his chair, and his hand shaded it.

“I know I forfeited all that,” she said.  “And I want you to feel that I—­understand, and shall never expect to have it again.  That is what I mean when I say, don’t be too kind to me.  You have been that, and much more than that, already.  But I won’t trade on your generosity.  I am not a child any longer to need support and protection.  I am old enough to stand alone.”

“And what of my promise to Bertrand?”

He asked the question quite quietly, as though it were of no special moment to him, but she flinched before it, and turned her face aside.

“Oh, I don’t think he would want you to be kind to me for his sake—­if he knew how much it hurt?”

Mordaunt was silent for a moment, then:  “And you have no use for my love?” he said.

She made a movement almost convulsive.  “Trevor, don’t—­torture me!”

“My child,” he said, “I only ask because I need to know.”

She laid a trembling hand on his.  “If I thought—­you loved me—­” She stopped, battling desperately for self-control, and after a few seconds began again.  “If I thought—­you wanted me—­”