But Chris was silent. She was trembling from head to foot.
"I know that you love him," Bertrand said, with confidence. "And for that—you will go back to him. You cannot live your life apart from him. You belong to him, Christine, and he—he belongs to you. Mr. Mordaunt—my dear friend—is it not so?"
But before he could answer, feverishly Chris again broke in. "Bertie, hush—hush! It isn't right! It isn't fair! Oh, forgive me for saying it! But can't you see that it isn't? He has forgiven me, and we are friends. But you mustn't ask any more than that, because—because it's no use." A sudden sob rose in her throat. She swallowed it with an immense effort. "He has been kind to me—for your sake," she said, "not my own. I have done nothing to deserve his kindness. I have never been worthy of him, and he knows it. I married him, loving you. Oh no, I didn't know it, but I ought to have known. And when I did know, I would have left him and gone with you. Nothing can ever alter that. And do you suppose he will ever forget it? Because I know—I know—that he never can!"
She ceased abruptly, and turned aside to battle with her agitation. Bertrand's hand stroked hers very tenderly, but his eyes were raised to the man who stood like a statue by his side.
He spoke after a moment very softly, almost as if to himself. "Neither will he forget," he said, "that our love was a summer idyll that came to us unawares in the days when we were young, and that though the idyll will come to an end, our love is a gift immortal—imperishable—indestructible—a flame that burns upwards and always upwards—reaching the Divine. And because he remembers this, he will understand, and think no evil. Christine," he turned to her again very persuasively, "you love him. You have need of him. I know it well. You are sad. You are lonely. Your heart cries out for him. Little Christine, will you not listen to it? Will you not go back to him?"
The man's whole soul was in the words. They quivered with the intensity of his appeal. Yet they went into silence. Chris was turned away from him. Only by the convulsive holding of her hand did he know that they had reached her heart.
The silence lengthened, became oppressive, became a burden too heavy to be borne.
"Christine!" He was becoming exhausted. His voice was no more than a whisper, but it throbbed with earnest entreaty.
Yet Chris remained silent still, for she could not speak in answer.
Several seconds passed. It seemed that the appeal would go unanswered. But at length the man who stood on Bertrand's other side made a quiet movement, bending down a little.