“What do you mean?” she asked, in a frightened voice.

“Just what I say,” he cried, with incredible vehemence.  “Leave him —­divorce him.  You cannot live with him.  He isn’t worthy to touch your hand.”

The idea planted itself with the force of a barbed arrow from a strong-bow.  Struggle as she might, she could not henceforth extract it.

“Oh!” she cried.

He took her arm, gently, and forced her to sit down on the wall.  Such was the completeness of his mastery that she did not resist.  He sat down beside her.

“Listen, Honora,” he said, and tried to speak calmly, though his voice was still vibrant; “let us look the situation m the face.  As I told you once, the days of useless martyrdom are past.  The world is more enlightened today, and recognizes an individual right to happiness.”

“To happiness,” she repeated after him, like a child.  He forgot his words as he looked into her eyes:  they were lighted as with all the candles of heaven in his honour.

“Listen,” he said hoarsely, and his fingers tightened on her arm.

The current running through her from him made her his instrument.  Did he say the sky was black, she would have exclaimed at the discovery.

“Yes—­I am listening.”

“Honora!”

“Hugh,” she answered, and blinded him.  He was possessed by the tragic fear that she was acting a dream; presently she would awake—­and shatter the universe.  His dominance was too complete.

“I love you—­I respect you.  You are making it very hard for me.  Please try to understand what I am saying,” he cried almost fiercely.  “This thing, this miracle, has happened in spite of us.  Henceforth you belong to me—­do you hear?”

Once more the candles flared up.

“We cannot drift.  We must decide now upon some definite action.  Our lives are our own, to make as we choose.  You said you were going away.  And you meant—­alone?”

The eyes were wide, now, with fright.

“Oh, I must—­I must,” she said.  “Don’t—­don’t talk about it.”  And she put forth a hand over his.

“I will talk about it,” he declared, trembling.  “I have thought it all out,” and this time it was her fingers that tightened.  “You are going away.  And presently—­when you are free—­I will come to you.”

For a moment the current stopped.

“No, no!” she cried, almost in terror.  The first fatalist must have been a woman, and the vision of rent prison bars drove her mad.  “No, we could never be happy.”

“We can—­we will be happy,” he said, with a conviction that was unshaken.  “Do you hear me?  I will not debase what I have to say by resorting to comparisons.  But—­others I know have been happy are happy, though their happiness cannot be spoken of with ours.  Listen.  You will go away—­for a little while—­and afterwards we shall be together for all time.  Nothing shall separate us:  We never have known life, either of us, until now.  I, missing you, have run after the false gods.  And you—­I say it with truth-needed me.  We will go to live at Grenoble, as my father and mother lived.  We will take up their duties there.  And if it seems possible, I will go into public life.  When I return, I shall find you—­waiting for me—­in the garden.”