Despairingly she retreated from the door.  There was an expression in his eyes that terrified her—­a furnace heat of passion barely held in check.  The Englishman within him was in abeyance; the hot, foreign blood was leaping in his veins.

“Max!” she faltered appealingly.

He crossed swiftly to her side, gripping her soft, bare arms in a hold so fierce that his fingers scored them with red weals.

“By God, Diana!  What do you think I’m made of?” he burst out violently.  “For months you’ve shut yourself away from me and I’ve borne it, waiting—­waiting always for you to come back to me.  Do you think it’s been easy?” His limbs were shaking, and his eyes burned into hers.  “And now—­now you tell me that you’ve done with me. . .  You take everything from me!  My love is to count for nothing!”

“You never loved me!” she protested, with low, breathless vehemence.  “It—­it could never have been love.”

For a moment he was silent, staring at her.

Then he laughed.

“Very well.  Call it desire, passion—­what you will!” he exclaimed brutally.  “But—­you married me, you know!”

She cowered away from him, looking to right and left like a trapped animal seeking to escape, but he held her ruthlessly, forcing her to face him.

All at once, her nerve gave way, and she began to cry—­helpless, despairing weeping that rocked the slight form in his grasp.  As she stood thus, the soft silk of her wrapper falling in straight folds about her; her loosened hair shadowing her white face, she looked pathetically small and young, and Errington suddenly relinquished his hold of her and stepped back, his hands slowly clenching in the effort not to take her in his arms.

Something tugged at his heart, pulling against the desire that ran riot in his veins—­something of the infinite tenderness of love which exists side by side with its passion.

“Don’t look like that,” he said hoarsely.  “I’ll—­I’ll go.”

He crossed the room, reeling a little in his stride, and, unlocking the door, flung it open.

She stared at him, incredulous relief in her face, while the tears still slid unchecked down her cheeks.

“Max—­” she stammered.

“Yes,” he returned.  “You’re free of me.  I don’t suppose you’ll believe it, but I love you too much to . . . take . . . what you won’t give.”

A minute later the door closed behind him and she heard his footsteps descending the stairs.

With a low moan she sank down beside the bed, her face hidden in her hands, sobbing convulsively.

CHAPTER XXIII

PAIN

Summer had come and gone, and Diana, after a brief visit to Crailing, had returned to town for the winter season.

The Crailing visit had not been altogether without its embarrassments.  It was true that Red Gables was closed and shuttered, so that she had run no risk of meeting either her husband or Adrienne, but Jerry, in the character of an engaged young man, had been staying at the Rectory, and he had allowed Diana to see plainly that his sympathies lay pre-eminently with Max, and that he utterly condemned her lack of faith in her husband.