There was a curious stricken expression on the face Diana turned towards him.

“So that was it!”

“Yes, that was it.  I tried to put you out of my life, for I’d no right to ask you into it.  And I’ve failed!  I can’t do without you”—­his voice gathered intensity—­“I want you—­body and soul I want you.  And yet—­a secret between husband and wife is a burden no man should ask a woman to bear.”

When next Diana spoke it was in a curiously cold, collected voice.  She felt stunned.  A great wall seemed to be rising up betwixt herself and Max; all her golden visions for the future were falling about her in ruins.

“You are right,” she said slowly.  “No man should ask—­that—­of his wife.”

Errington’s face twisted with pain.

“I never meant to let you know I cared,” he answered.  “I fought down my love for you just because of that.  And then—­it grew too strong for me. . . .  My God!  If you knew what it’s been like—­to be near you, with you, constantly, and yet to feel that you were as far removed from me as the sun itself.  Diana—­beloved—­can’t you trust me over this one thing?  Isn’t your love strong enough for that?”

She turned on him passionately.

“Oh, you are unfair to me—­cruelly unfair!  You ask me to trust you!  And your very asking implies that you cannot trust me!”

There was bitter anger in her voice.

“I know it looks like that,” he said wearily.  “And I can’t explain.  I can only ask you to believe in me and trust me.  I thought . . . perhaps . . . you loved me enough to do it.”  His mouth twitched with a little smile, half sad, half ironical.  “My usual presumption, I suppose.”

She made no answer, but after a moment asked abruptly:—­

“Does this—­this secret concern only you?”

“That I cannot tell you.  I can’t answer any questions.  If—­if you come to me, it must be in absolute blind trust.”  He paused, his eyes entreating her.  “Is it . . . too much to ask?”

Diana was silent, looking away from him across the water.  The sun slipped behind a cloud, and a grey shadow spread like a blight over the summer sea.  It lay leaden and dull, tufted with little white crests of foam.

The man and woman stood side by side, motionless, unresponsive.  It was as though a sword had suddenly descended, cleaving them asunder.

Presently she heard him mutter in a low tone of anguish:—­

“So this—­this, too—­must be added to the price!”

The pain in his voice pulled at her heart.  She stretched out her hands towards him.

“Max!  Give me time!”

He wheeled round, and the tense look of misery in his face hurt her almost physically.

“What do you mean?” he asked hoarsely.

“I must have time to think.  Husband and wife ought to be one.  What—­what happiness can there be if . . . if we marry . . . like this?”