‘Not for you—no. There’s nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see others die. That’s the sensation of life—the sense that we remain. I’ve had it—even I. But now I’m of no use but to give it to others. With me it’s all over.’ And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till it rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn’t see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. ‘Isabel,’ he went on suddenly, ‘I wish it were over for you.’ She answered nothing; she had burst into sobs; she remained so, with her buried face. He lay silent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a long groan. ‘Ah, what is it you have done for me?’

‘What is it you did for me?’ she cried, her now extreme agitation half smothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish to hide things. Now he must know; she wished him to know, for it brought them supremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. ‘You did something once—you know it. O Ralph, you’ve been everything! What have I done for you—what can I do to-day? I would die if you could live. But I don’t wish you to live; I would die myself, not to lose you.’ Her voice was as broken as his own and full of tears and anguish.

‘You won’t lose me—you’ll keep me. Keep me in your heart; I shall be nearer to you than I’ve ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for in life there’s love. Death is good—but there’s no love.’

‘I never thanked you—I never spoke—I never was what I should be!’ Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry out and accuse herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the moment, became single and melted together into this present pain. ‘What must you have thought of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew, and I only know to-day because there are people less stupid than I.’

‘Don’t mind people,’ said Ralph. ‘I think I’m glad to leave people.’

She raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for a moment to pray to him. ‘Is it true—is it true?’ she asked.

‘True that you’ve been stupid? Oh no,’ said Ralph with a sensible intention of wit.

‘That you made me rich—that all I have is yours?’

He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing. That at last: ‘Ah, don’t speak of that—that was not happy.’ Slowly he moved his face toward her again, and they once more saw each other. ‘But for that—but for that—!’ And he paused. ‘I believe I ruined you,’ he wailed.

She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of pain; he seemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not had it she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the only knowledge that was not pure anguish—the knowledge that they were looking at the truth together. ‘He married me for the money,’ she said. She wished to say everything; she was afraid he might die before she had done so.

He gazed at her a little, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered their lids. But he raised them in a moment, and then, ‘He was greatly in love with you,’ he answered.

‘Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn’t have married me if I had been poor. I don’t hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want you to understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding; but that’s all over.’

‘I always understood,’ said Ralph.

‘I thought you did, and I didn’t like it. But now I like it.’

‘You don’t hurt me—you make me very happy.’ And as Ralph said this there was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. She bent her head again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. ‘I always understood,’