Oh, they were foolish and tender and wonderful, as lovers always are.

He had given his orders beforehand and the chauffeur was a man of intelligence.  They drove in the most beautiful allee when they came to the Bois—­and no incident ruffled the exquisite peace and bliss of their time.

Suddenly Hector became aware of the fact it was just upon half-past ten, and they were almost in sight of Madrid, which would end it all.

And a pang of hideous pain shot through him, and he did not speak.

In the distance the lights blazed into the night, and the sight of them froze Theodora to ice.

It was finished then—­their hour of joy.

“My darling,” he exclaimed, passionately, “good-bye, and remember all my life is in your hands, and I will spend it in worship of you and thankfulness for this hour of yourself you have given to me.  I am yours to do with as you will until death do us part.”

“And I,” said Theodora, “will never love another man—­and if we have sinned we have sinned together—­and now, oh, Hector, we must face our fates.”

Her voice tore his very heartstrings in its unutterable pathos.

And in that last passionate kiss it seemed as if they exchanged their very souls.

Then they drove into the glare of the restaurant lights, having tasted of the knowledge of good and evil.

XIII

“What have I done?  What have I done?” Hector groaned to himself in anguish as he paced up and down his room at the Ritz an hour after the party had broken up, and he had driven Mrs. McBride back in his automobile, leaving hers to father and daughter.

All through supper Theodora had sat limp and white as death, and every time she had looked at him her eyes had reminded him of a fawn he had wounded once at Bracondale, in the park, with his bow and arrow, when he was a little boy.  He remembered how fearfully proud he had been as he saw it fall, and then how it had lain in his arms and bled and bled, and its tender eyes had gazed at him in no reproach, only sorrow and pain, and a dumb asking why he had hurt it.

All the light of the stars seemed quenched, no eyes in the world had ever looked so unutterably pathetic as Theodora’s eyes, and gradually as they sat and talked platitudes and chaffed with the elderly fiancees, it had come to him how cruel he had been—­he who had deliberately used every art to make her love him—­and now, having gained his end, what could he do for her?  What for himself?  Nothing but sorrow faced them both.  He had taken brutal advantage of her gentleness and innocence—­when chivalry alone should have made him refrain.