“Do I show it?” he asked, chagrined.  “I did not know that.”

“Only to me—­because I know.  And I remember how young you were—­that first day.  Your whole expression has changed....  And I know why....  At times it scarcely seems that I can bear it—­when I see your mouth laughing at the world and your eyes without mirth—­dead—­and the youth in you so altered, so quenched, so—­forgive me!—­so useless—­”

“To what better use could I devote it, Shiela?”

“Oh, you don’t know!—­you don’t know!—­You are free; there are other women, other hopes—­try to understand what freedom means!”

“It means—­you,, Shiela.”

She fell silent; then: 

“Wherever I turn, whatever I say—­all paths and words lead back again to you and me.  I should not have come.”

The hard, hammering pulse in his throat made it difficult for him to speak; but he managed to force an unsteady laugh; “Shiela, there is only one way for me, now—­to fire and fall back.  I’ve got to go up to Portlaw’s camp anyhow—­”

“And after that?”

“Mrs. Ascott wants a miniature Versailles.  I’ll show you the rough sketches—­”

“And after that?”

“I’ve one or two promises—­”

“And afterward?”

“Nothing.”

“You will never—­see me—­again.  Is that what ‘nothing’ means?”

They walked on in silence.  The path had now become palely illumined; the sound of the surf was very near.  Another step or two and they stood on the forest’s edge.

A spectral ocean stretched away under the stars; ghostly rollers thundered along the sands.  North and south dunes glimmered; and the hot fragrance of sweet-bay mingled with the mounting savour of the sea.

She looked at the sea, the stars, blindly, lips apart, teeth closed, her arm still resting on his.

“Nothing,” she repeated under her breath; “that was the best answer....  Don’t touch my hand!...  I was mad to come here....  How close and hot it is!  What is that new odour—­so fresh and sweet—­”

“China-berry in bloom—­”

“Is it?”

“I’m not sure; once I thought it was—­you; the fragrance of your hair and breath—­Calypso.”

“When did you think that?”

“Our first night together.”

She said:  “I think this is our last.”

He stood for a while, motionless; slowly raised his head and looked straight into her eyes; took her in his arms; holding her loosely.

White of cheek and lip, rigid, her eyes met his in breathless suspense.  Fear widened them; her hands tightened on his wrists behind her.

“Will you love me?”

“No!” she gasped.

“Is there no chance?”

“No!”

Her heart was running riot; every pulse in rebellion.  A cloud possessed her senses, through which her eyes fought desperately for sight.

“Give me a memory—­to carry through the years,” he said unsteadily.