Elaine nodded. Her hand was in his. John lifted it to his lips. Then recollection came to him; he drew himself erect, standing away from her.
"It's getting late, Elaine," he said. "I ought to be going." There was something vibrant and new in his voice that caused her heart to beat violently. "You see," John went on, somewhat clumsily, "I have important work to do to-morrow."
But Elaine had not loosed her grip of his hand. She suddenly hid her face on his shoulder; he could feel her arms about him. For a minute, what was to John an awkward silence, subsisted between them, then Elaine spoke again:
"Why should you go, Bernard?" she whispered. "I was cruel to you, but I did not wish to be cruel."
"You are never cruel," protested John. "Don't think of it any more."
His situation in that moment was the hardest that Fate could have possibly imposed upon him. Here was the finest woman he had ever met—young, beautiful and ardent, with her arms about his neck, whispering love to him. She was speaking to him as a wife to a husband whom she loves, and all the time he was not that husband. And, to complicate matters, he felt now that the love she was prepared to offer was not offered to the other—to Bernard Treves—but to himself alone.
"Bernard," she murmured, "at the back of my heart, through all those black days, I whispered always that some time I should be happy."
"I am sure you'll be happy," said John. "It will not be my fault if you are not." He drew in a deep breath. "But to-night—I must go; I—I am very busy; I have many things to do to-night. Confidential work." He lifted her hand, bent and kissed her slender white fingers. "Some day I'll explain."
A minute later he was gone.
* * * * *