“I know.  I understand.”

She put her arm round his neck.

“Perhaps I ought to give you up, let you go.  I’ve thought that.  But I haven’t the courage.  Dion, I’m lonely, I’m lonely.”

He felt moisture on his cheek.

“About you I’m absolutely selfish,” she said, in a low, swift voice.  “Even if all this hypocrisy hurts you I can’t give you up.  I’ve told you a lie—­even you.”

“When?”

“I said to you on that night——­”

She waited.

“I know,” he said.

“I said that I hadn’t cared for you till I met you in Pera, and saw what she had done to you.  That was a lie.  I cared for you in England.  Didn’t you know it?”

“Once or twice I wondered, but I was never at all sure.”

“It was because I cared that I wanted to make friends with your wife.  I had no evil reason.  I knew you and she were perfectly happy together.  But I wanted just to see you sometimes.  She guessed it.  That was why she avoided me—­the real reason.  It wasn’t only because I’d been involved in a scandal, though I told you once it was.  I’ve sometimes lied to you because I didn’t want to feel myself humiliated in your eyes.  But now I don’t care.  You can know all the truth if you want to.  You pushed me away—­oh, very gently—­because of her.  Did you think I didn’t understand?  You were afraid of me.  Perhaps you thought I was a nuisance.  When I came back from Paris on purpose for Tippie Chetwinde’s party you were startled, almost horrified, when you saw me.  I saw it all so plainly.  In the end, as you know, I gave it up.  Only when you went to the war I had to send that telegram.  I thought you might be killed, and I wanted you to know I was remembering you, and admiring you for what you had done.  Then you came with poor Brayfield’s letter——­”

She broke off, then added, with a long, quivering sigh: 

“You’ve made me suffer, Dion.”

“Have I?”

He turned till he was facing her in the darkness.

“Then at last you were overtaken by your tragedy, and she showed you her cruelty and cast you out.  From that moment I was resolved some day to let you know how much I cared.  I wanted you in your misery.  But I waited.  I had a conviction that you would come to me, drawn, without suspecting it, by what I felt for you.  Well, you came at last.  And now you ask me whether you are one of many.”

“Forgive me!” he whispered.

“But of course I shall always forgive you for everything.  Women who care for men always do that.  They can’t help themselves.  And you—­will you forgive me for my lies?”

He took her in his arms.

“Life’s full of them.  Only don’t tell me any more, and make me forget if you can.  You’ve got so much will.  Try to have the power for that.”

“Then help me.  Give yourself wholly to me.  You have struggled against me furtively.  You thought I didn’t know it, but I did.  You look back to the old ways.  And that is madness.  Turn a new page, Dion.  Have the courage to hope.”