“Never mind, sweet!  It doesn’t matter if you never understand.  Just give me credit for one saving grace.”

He spoke lightly, as men speak when they are bankrupt of hope, then with a sudden breaking of his stoicism, he caught her in his arms, straining her close, kissing her mouth, talking incoherently to himself.

“Oh, Maxine!  Little faun of the green groves!  If you could know!  But what am I that I should possess the kingdom of heaven?”

His ecstasy frightened her; she struggled to free herself.

“What is it?” she asked.  “What is it?”

“Just love—­no more, no less!  Good-bye!  Take your life—­make it what you will; but know always that one man at least has seen heaven in your eyes.”  Again he held her to him, his whole life seeming to flow out upon his thoughts and to envelop her, then his arms relaxed and very soberly he took, first one of her hands, and then the other, kissing each in turn.

“Maxine!”

“Ned!” The word faltered on her lips.

“That’s right!” he whispered.  “I only wanted you to say my name.  Good-bye now!  Don’t fret for me!  After all, everything is as it should be.”

She stood before him, the conqueror.  All preconceptions had been scattered; she had not even won her laurels, they had been placed at her feet; and all the pomp and circumstance she could summon to her triumphing was a white face, a drooping head, and speechless lips.

“Good-bye, Maxine!” The words cried for response, and by a supreme effort she summoned her voice from some far region.

“Good-bye!”

He did not kiss her hand again, but bending his head, he solemnly kissed his own ring, lying cold upon her finger.

CHAPTER XLI

All was finished.  Mystery was at an end.  The pilgrim’s staff had been placed in Maxine’s hand, her feet set toward the great white road.  She leaned back against the window of the salon and her mental eyes scanned that road—­the coveted road of freedom, the way of splendid isolation—­and in a vague, dumb fashion she wondered why the whiteness that had gleamed like snow in the distance should take on the hue of dust seen at close quarters.  She wondered why she should feel so absolutely numbed—­why life, with its exuberances of joy and sorrow, should suddenly have receded from her as a tide recedes.

There had been no battle; hers was a bloodless victory.  Fate had been exquisitely kind, as is Fate’s way when she would be ironical.  Maxine could call up no cause for grief or for resentment, no cause even for remorse.  She had confessed herself; she had been shriven and blessed, and bade to go her way!