“Never!” he said aloud to the revealing night.

And he hesitated.  The secret of hearts, too terrible for the timid eyes of men, shall return, veiled forever, to the Inscrutable Creator of good and evil, to the Master of doubts and impulses.  His conscience was born—­he heard its voice, and he hesitated, ignoring the strength within, the fateful power, the secret of his heart!  It was an awful sacrifice to cast all one’s life into the flame of a new belief.  He wanted help against himself, against the cruel decree of salvation.  The need of tacit complicity, where it had never failed him, the habit of years affirmed itself.  Perhaps she would help . . .  He flung the door open and rushed in like a fugitive.

He was in the middle of the room before he could see anything but the dazzling brilliance of the light; and then, as if detached and floating in it on the level of his eyes, appeared the head of a woman.  She had jumped up when he burst into the room.

For a moment they contemplated each other as if struck dumb with amazement.  Her hair streaming on her shoulders glinted like burnished gold.  He looked into the unfathomable candour of her eyes.  Nothing within—­nothing—­nothing.

He stammered distractedly.

“I want . . .  I want . . . to . . . to . . . know . . .”

On the candid light of the eyes flitted shadows; shadows of doubt, of suspicion, the ready suspicion of an unquenchable antagonism, the pitiless mistrust of an eternal instinct of defence; the hate, the profound, frightened hate of an incomprehensible—­of an abominable emotion intruding its coarse materialism upon the spiritual and tragic contest of her feelings.

“Alvan . . .  I won’t bear this . . .”  She began to pant suddenly, “I’ve a right—­a right to—­to—­myself . . .”

He lifted one arm, and appeared so menacing that she stopped in a fright and shrank back a little.

He stood with uplifted hand . . .  The years would pass—­and he would have to live with that unfathomable candour where flit shadows of suspicions and hate . . .  The years would pass—­and he would never know—­never trust . . .  The years would pass without faith and love. . . .

“Can you stand it?” he shouted, as though she could have heard all his thoughts.

He looked menacing.  She thought of violence, of danger—­and, just for an instant, she doubted whether there were splendours enough on earth to pay the price of such a brutal experience.  He cried again: 

“Can you stand it?” and glared as if insane.  Her eyes blazed, too.  She could not hear the appalling clamour of his thoughts.  She suspected in him a sudden regret, a fresh fit of jealousy, a dishonest desire of evasion.  She shouted back angrily—­

“Yes!”

He was shaken where he stood as if by a struggle to break out of invisible bonds.  She trembled from head to foot.