“Don’t speak,” he said brokenly, springing up, and standing before her in her path.  “You shall forgive me—­I will compel it!  See! here we are on this moonlit space of floor, alone, in the night.  Very probably we shall never meet again, except as strangers.  Put off convention, and speak to me, soul to soul!  You are not happy altogether in this marriage.  I know it.  You have as good as confessed it.  Yet you will go through with it.  You have given your word—­your honour holds you.  I recognise that it holds you.  I say nothing, not a syllable, against your bond!  But here, to-night, tell me, promise me that you will make this marriage of yours serve our hopes and ends, the ends that you and I have foreseen together—­that it shall be your instrument, not your chain.  We have been six weeks together.  You say you have learnt from me; you have! you have given me your mind, your heart to write on, and I have written.  Henceforward you will never look at life as you might have done if I had not been here.  Do you think I triumph, that I boast?  Ah!” he drew in his breath—­“What if in helping you, and teaching you—­for I have helped and taught you!—­I have undone myself?  What if I came here the slave of impersonal causes, of ends not my own?  What if I leave—­maimed—­in face of the battle?  Not your fault?  No, perhaps not! but, at least, you owe me some gentleness now, in these last words—­some kindness in farewell.”

He came closer, held out his hands.  With one of her own she put his back, and lifted the other dizzily to her forehead.

“Don’t come near me!” she said, tottering.  “What is it?  I cannot see.  Go!”

And guiding herself, as though blindfold, to a chair, she sank upon it, and her head dropped.  It was the natural result of a moment of intense excitement coming upon nerves already strained and tried to their utmost.  She fought desperately against her weakness; but there was a moment when all around her swam, and she knew nothing.

Then came a strange awakening.  What was this room, this weird light, these unfamiliar forms of things, this warm support against which her cheek lay?  She opened her eyes languidly.  They met Wharton’s half in wonder.  He was kneeling beside her, holding her.  But for an instant she realised nothing except his look, to which her own helplessly replied.

“Once!” she heard him whisper.  “Once!  Then nothing more—­for ever.”

And stooping, slowly, deliberately, he kissed her.

In a stinging flow, life, shame, returned upon her.  She struggled to her feet, pushing him from her.

“You dared,” she said, “dared such a thing!”

She could say no more; but her attitude, fiercely instinct, through all her physical weakness, with her roused best self, was speech enough.  He did not venture to approach her.  She walked away.  He heard the door close, hurrying steps on the little stairs, then silence.