“You—­can’t—­go—­back?” The words fell slowly, one by one, from Olga’s lips.  “Do you mean that you won’t go back now—­now that you know he has never failed you as you thought he had? . . .  Oh!”—­rapidly—­“you can’t mean that.  You won’t—­you can’t refuse to go back now.”

Diana lifted a grey, drawn face.

“Don’t you see,” she said monotonously, “it’s just because of that—­because he hasn’t failed me while I’ve failed him so utterly—­that I can’t go back?”

Olga turned on her swiftly, her green eyes blazing dangerously.

“It’s your pride!” she cried fiercely.  “It’s your damnable pride that’s standing in the way!  Merciful heavens!  Did you ever love him, I wonder, that you’re too proud to ask his forgiveness now—­now when you know what you’ve done?”

Diana’s lips moved in a pitiful attempt at a smile.

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head.  “It’s not that.  I’ve . . . no pride . . . left, I think.  But I can’t be mean—­mean enough to crawl back now.”  She paused, then went on with an inflection of irony in her low, broken voice. “‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’ . . .  Well, I’m reaping—­that’s all.”

Like the keen thrust of a knife came Olga’s answer.

“And must he, too, reap your sowing?  For that’s what it amounts to—­that Max must suffer for your sin.  Oh!  He’s paid enough for others! . . .  Diana”—­imploringly—­“Max is leaving England to-night.  Go back to him now—­don’t wait until it’s too late,”

“No.”  Diana spoke in dead, flat tones.  “Can’t you understand?”—­moving her head restlessly.  “Do you suppose—­even if he forgave me—­that he could ever believe in me again?  He would never be certain that I really trusted him.  He would always feel unsure of me.”

“If you can think that, then you haven’t understood Max—­or his love for you,” retorted Olga vehemently.  “Oh!  How can I make you see it?  You keep on balancing this against that—­what you can give, what Max can believe—­weighing out love as though it were sold by the ounce!  Max loves you—­loves you!  And there aren’t any limitations to love!” She broke off abruptly, her voice shaking.  “Can’t you believe it?” she added helplessly, after a minute.

Diana shook her head.

“I think you mean to be kind,” she said patiently.  “But love is a giving.  And I—­have nothing to give.”

“And you’re too proud to take.”

“Yes . . . if you call that pride.  I can’t take—­when I’ve nothing to give.”

“Then you don’t love!  You don’t know what it means to love!  Diana”—­Olga’s voice rose in passionate entreaty—­“for God’s sake go to him!  He’s suffered so much.  Forget what people may think—­what even he may think!  Throw your pride overboard and remember only that he loves you and has need of you. Go to him!”

She ceased, and her eyes implored Diana’s.  No matter what may have been her shortcomings—­and they were many, for she was a hard, embittered woman—­at least, in her devotion to her brother, Olga Lermontof approached very nearly to the heroic.