An Englishman might have stormed or laughed, as the mood took him, and comforted himself with the reflection that she would “get over it.”  But not so Max.  The sensitiveness which he hid from the world at large, but which revealed itself in the lines of that fine-cut mouth of his, winced under the humiliation she had put upon him.  Love, in his idea, was a thing so delicate, so rare, that Diana’s crude handling of the situation bore for him a far deeper meaning than the impulsive, headlong action of the over-wrought girl had rightly held.  To Max, it signified the end—­the denial of all the exquisite trust and understanding which love should represent.  If she could think for an instant that he would have asked aught from her at a moment when they were so far apart in spirit, then she had not understood the ideal oneness of body and soul which love signified to him, and the knowledge that she had actually sought to protect herself from him had hurt him unbearably.

“Last night,” he said slowly, “you showed me that you have no trust, no faith in me any longer.”

And Diana, misunderstanding, thinking of the secret which he would not share with her, and impelled by the jealousy that obsessed her, replied impetuously:—­

“Yes, I meant to show you that.  You refuse me your confidence, and expect me to believe in you!  You set me aside for Adrienne de Gervais, and then you ask me to—­trust you?  How can I? . . .  I’m not a fool, Max.”

“So it’s that?  The one thing over which I asked your faith?” The limitless scorn in his voice lashed her.

“You had no right to ask it!” she broke out bitterly.  “Oh, you knew what it would mean.  I, I was too young to realise.  I didn’t think—­I didn’t understand what a horrible thing a secret between husband and wife might be.  But I can’t bear it—­I can’t bear it any longer!  I sometimes wonder,” she added slowly, “if you ever loved me?”

“If I ever loved you?” he repeated.  “There has never been any other woman in the world for me.  There never will be.”

The utter, absolute conviction of his tones knocked at her heart, but fear and jealousy were stronger than love.

“Then prove it!” she retorted.  “Take me into your confidence; put Adrienne out of your life.”

“It isn’t possible—­not yet,” he said wearily.  “You’re asking what I cannot do.”

She took a step nearer.

“Tell me this, then.  What did Olga Lermontof mean when she bade me ask your name?  Oh!”—­with a quick intake of her breath—­“you must answer that, Max; you must tell me that.  I have a right to know it!”

For a moment he was silent, while she waited, eager-eyed, tremulously appealing, for his answer.  At last it came.

“No,” he said inflexibly.  “You have no—­right—­to ask anything I haven’t chosen to tell you.  When you gave me your love, you gave me your faith, too.  I warned you what it might mean—­but you gave it.  And I”—­his voice deepened—­“I worshipped you for it!  But I see now, I asked too much of you.  More”—­cynically—­“than any woman has to give.”