“It would.  But I hoped you might have the decency to act without—­persuasion.”  Monck was speaking between his teeth, but the revolver was concealed again in the folds of his garment.  “You will leave to-night—­at once—­without seeing her again.  That is understood.”

It was the end of the conflict.  Dacre attempted no further resistance.  He was not the man to waste himself upon a cause that he realized to be hopeless.  Moreover, there was about Monck at that moment a force that restrained him, compelled instinctive respect.  Though he hated the man for his mastery, he could not despise him.  For he knew that what he had done had been done through a rigid sense of honour and that chivalry which goes hand in hand with honour—­the chivalry with which no woman would have credited him.

That Monck had nought but the most disinterested regard for any woman, he firmly believed, and probably that conviction gave added strength to his position.  That he should fight thus for a mere principle, though incomprehensible in Dacre’s opinion, was a circumstance that carried infinitely more weight than more personal championship.  Monck was the one man of his acquaintance who had never displayed the smallest desire to compete for any woman’s favour, who had never indeed shown himself to be drawn by any feminine attractions, and his sudden assumption of authority was therefore unassailable.  In yielding to the greater power, Dacre yielded to a moral force rather than to human compulsion.  And though driven sorely against his will, he respected the power that drove.  His dumb gesture of acquiescence conveyed as much as he turned away relinquishing the struggle.

He had fought hard, and he had been defeated.  It was bitter enough, but after all he had had his turn.  The first hot rapture was already passing.  Love in the wilderness could not last for ever.  It had been fierce enough—­too fierce to endure.  And characteristically he reflected that Stella’s cold beauty would not have held him for long.  He preferred something more ardent, more living.  Moreover, his nature demanded a certain meed of homage from the object of his desire, and undeniably this had been conspicuously lacking.  Stella was evidently one to accept rather than to give, and there had been moments when this had slightly galled him.  She seemed to him fundamentally incapable of any deep feeling, and though this had not begun to affect their relations at present, he had realized in a vague fashion that because of it she would not hold him for ever.  So, after the first, he knew that he would find consolation.  Certainly he would not break his heart for her or for any woman, nor did he flatter himself that she would break hers for him.