“You’re thinking of no one but yourself,” he protested, furiously.  “Think of me.  I’ve given you all I have, all that’s best and finest in me.  I shall never love another woman—­”

“Not in quite the way you love me, perhaps, but the peach ripens even after its bloom has been rubbed off.  You have given me what is best and finest, your first love, and I shall cherish it.”

“Will you marry me?” he cried, hoarsely.  She made a silent refusal.

“Then I can put but one interpretation upon your actions.”

“Don’t be too hasty in your judgment.  Can’t you see?  I was weak.  I was tired.  Then you came, like a draught of wine, and—­I lost my head.  But I’ve regained it.  I dreamed my dream, but it’s daylight now and I’m awake.  I know that you believe me a heartless, selfish woman.  Maybe I am, but I’ve tried to think for you, and to act on that good impulse.  I tell you I would have been quite incapable of it before I knew you.  A day, a month, a year of happiness!  Most women of my age and experience would snatch at it, but I’m looking farther ahead than that.  I can’t afford another mistake.  Life fits me, but you—­why, you’re bursting your seams.”

“You’ve puzzled me with a lot of words,” the young man said, with ever-growing resentment, “but what do they all amount to?  You amused yourself with me and you’re ready enough to continue so long as I pour my devotion at your feet.  Well, I won’t do it.  If you loved me truly you wouldn’t refuse to marry me.  Isn’t that so?  True love isn’t afraid, it doesn’t quibble and temporize and split hairs the way you do.  No, it steps out boldly and follows the light.  You’ve had your fun, you’ve—­broken my heart.”  Phillips’ voice shook and he swallowed hard.  “I’m through; I’m done.  I shall never love another woman as I love you, but if what you said about that sex-call is true, I—­I’ll play the game as you played it.”  He turned blindly and with lowered head plunged out of the tent into the night.

The Countess listened to the sounds of his departing footsteps; then, when they had ceased, she rose wearily and flung out her arms.  There was a real and poignant distress in her eyes.

“Boy!  Boy!” she whispered.  “It was sweet, but—­there had to be an end.”

For a long time she stood staring at nothing; then she roused herself with a shiver, refilled the stove, and seated herself again, dropping her chin upon her knees as she did instinctively when in deep thought.

“If only I were sure,” she kept repeating to herself.  “But he has the call and—­I’m too old.”

CHAPTER XIII