She looked intently down at him.

“I think at last you have become—­my champion. . . .  Not my—­destroyer.  Answer me, Philip!”

He would not, or could not.

“I take you—­for mine,” she said.  “Will you deny me?”

“No, Ailsa.”

She said, steadily:  “The other—­the lesser happiness is to be—­forgotten.  Answer.”

“It—­must be.”

She bent lower, whispering:  “Is there no wedlock of the spirit?”

“That is all there ever was to hope for.”

“Then—­will you—­Philip?”

“Yes.  Will you, Ailsa?”

“I—­will.”

He rose; her fingers slipped from his hair to his hands, and they stood, confronted.

She said in a dull voice:  “I am engaged to—­be—­married to Captain Hallam.”

“I know it.”

She spoke again, very white.

“Can you tell me why you will not marry me?”

“No, I cannot tell you.”

“I—­would love you none the less.  Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I do now.  But I—­cannot ask that of you.”

“Yet—­you would have—­taken me without—­marriage.”

He said, quietly: 

“Marriage—­or love to the full, without it—­God knows how right or wrong that may be.  The world outlaws those who love without it—­drives them out, excommunicates, damns. . . .  It may be God does, too; but—­I—­don’t—­believe it, Ailsa.”

She said, whiter still:  “Then I must not think of—­what cannot be?”

“No,” he said dully, “it cannot be.”

She laid her hands against his lips in silence.

“Good night. . . .  You won’t leave me—­too much—­alone?”

“May I write to you, dear?”

“Please.  And come when—­when you can.”

He laughed in the utter hopelessness of it all.

“Dear, I cannot come to you unless—­he comes.”

At that the colour came back into her face.

Suddenly she stooped, touched his hands swiftly with her lips—­the very ghost of contact—­turned, and was gone.

Hallam’s voice was hearty and amiable; also he welcomed her with a smile; but there seemed to be something hard in his eyes as he said: 

“I began to be afraid that you’d gone to sleep, Ailsa.  What the deuce has kept you?  A sick man?”

“Y-es; he is—­better—­I think.”

“That’s good.  I’ve only a minute or two left, and I wanted to speak—­if you’ll let me—­about——­”

“Can’t you come again next week?” she asked.

“Well—­of course, I’ll do my best.  I wanted to speak——­”

“Don’t say everything now,” she protested, forcing a smile, “otherwise what excuse will you have for coming again?”

“Well—­I wished to—­ See here, Ailsa, will you let me speak about the practical part of our future when I come next time?”

For a moment she could, not bring herself to the deception; but the memory of Berkley rendered her desperate.