“Sweetheart,” he went on, “we have got to part in a moment, but I just must know if you love me a little in spite of everything.  I must know, my darling little girl.”

Then he held her to him again with immense tenderness, even in this moment of agonized parting exulting in the intoxication of love he saw that he had created in her eyes.  There was no wile for the enslaving of a woman’s heart that he was not master of.  The question as to whether he ought to have employed them on this occasion is quite another matter, and not for our consideration!  He was doing what he thought was the only honorable thing possible, giving up this glorious happiness, and he was merely a strong, passionate human being after all.  They were going to part for the rest of their lives; he must make her tell him that she loved him, he wanted to hear her say the words.

“Sabine—­little darling—­answer me,” he pleaded.

She flung her arms round his neck, her whole body vibrating with emotion.

“I love you absolutely, Michael,” she cried, “and I have always forgiven you—­I was mad to leave you, and I have longed often to go back.  Oh!  I would sooner be dead than not to be your wife.”

They both were white now, the misery was so great.  He knew he must go at once, or he could never go at all.  They were too racked with present suffering to think what the future could contain, or of the growing agony of the long weary days and how they could ever bear them.

“My God, this is past endurance!” Michael exclaimed frantically.  And after a wild embrace, he almost flung her from him.  Then, as she staggered to a sofa she heard the door close, and knew that chapter of her life was done.

She sat there for a while gazing into the fire, too stunned with misery even to think; but presently everything came to her with merciless clearness.  How small she had been all along!  Instead of waiting until she heard the truth, she had let a wretched paragraph in a newspaper inflame her wounded vanity, so that she gave her promise to Henry there and then—­putting the rope round her neck with her own hands.  And afterwards, instead of being brave and true, wounded vanity again had caused her to tighten the knot.  She remembered Henry’s words when he had implored her to tell him what were the actual wishes of her heart—­and how she had cut off all retreat by her answer.  She remembered all his goodness to her and how she had accepted it as her due, making him care for her more and more as each day came.

“I have been a hopeless coward,” she moaned, “a paltry, vain, hopeless coward.  I should have owned Michael was my husband immediately.  Henry could have got over it then, and now we might be happy—­but it is too late; there is nothing to be done——!”

Then she buried her face in her hands and sobbed brokenly.  “Oh, my love, my love—­and I did not even now tell you all.”

The clock struck one—­supper would be beginning and she must go down.  If Michael could bear this agony and behave like a gentleman, she also must play her part with dignity.  Henry would be waiting at the bottom of the stairs.