“You want me?  You want me, Bertie?” said she.  Tears were in her eyes and in her voice, for there was to her a passion of pathos in those words of his.  “You want me, and you know that it is only my soul that shall be lost if I give myself to you.  God has decreed that only the soul of the woman pays the penalty of the man’s longing for her.”

“You soul shall be saved, not lost,” said he.  “At present it is your soul that is in peril, when you give your sweetness to the man whom you have ceased to love—­ah! whom you never loved.  You will save your soul with me.”

“I shall lose it for all eternity,” said she.  “Do you think that I complain?  Do you fancy for a moment that I grumble at the decree of God, or that I rail against it as unjust?”

“You are a woman.”

“I am a woman, and therefore you know I will one day be ready to lose my soul for you, Bertie, my love.  Oh, my dear, dear love, you say you want me?”

“Oh, my God!”

He had sprung to his feet and was pacing the room before her.

“You say that you want me.  Oh, my love, my love, do you fancy for a moment that your longing for me is anything to be compared to my longing for you?”

“My beloved, my beloved!”

His arms were about her.  His lips were upon hers.  She kissed him as he kissed her.

Then she turned her head away so that his kisses fell upon her cheek instead of her mouth.  She turned it still farther and they fell upon her neck—­it was exquisite in its shape—­and lay there like red rose-leaves clinging to a carved marble pillar.

“Wait,” she said.  “Wait; let me talk to you.”

She untwined his arms from about her—­the tears were still in her eyes as she tried to face him.

“Why should you still have tears?” said he.  “If anything stood between us and love, there might be room for tears, but nothing stands between us now.  I am yours, you are mine.”

“That is the boast of a man who sees only the beginning of a love; mine are the tears of a woman who sees its end, and knows that it is not far off.”

“How can you say that?  The end? the end of love such as ours?  Oh, Ella!”

“Oh, listen to me, my love!  I am ashamed of the part I have played during the past six months—­since we were together on the Arno, and you are ashamed, too.”

“I am not ashamed.  I have no reason to be ashamed.”

“No; you are not ashamed of the part you have played; but you are ashamed of me, Bertie.”

“Oh you?  I—­ashamed of you?  Oh, my darling, if you talk longer in that strain I will be ashamed of you.”

“You are ashamed of me—­I have sometimes felt it.  A man with a heart such as I know yours to be, cannot but be ashamed of a woman, who, though the wife of another man, allows him to kiss her—­yes, and who gives him kiss for kiss.  Oh, go away—­go away!  I have had enough of your love—­enough of your kisses, enough shame!  Go away!  I never wish to see you again—­to kiss you again.”