“Beloved,” said Paul huskily, “it is because I love you—because you are more than the whole world to me that I cannot let there be the smallest stain upon your honour. I—my God, how I worship you!” The words came from him like a cry.
“Ah, Paul.” The bitterness in her heart had melted, and with it her strength. He held her in his arms.
“Was—was I horrible?” she asked.
He kissed her lips fiercely. “You were wonderful, my darling. God knows the generosity of women. But there are some sacrifices a man cannot accept.”
“It would have been none,” she whispered.
He held her closer. “You think not now, my darling. But later—— Dearest, I could not bear to see your whiteness stained by the mud the world would throw at you.” He kissed her eyes and hair.
“What is to be the end of it?” she asked. “What must we do?”
He laughed sadly. “There is only one thing left for us to do—we must say good-bye.”
She put her arms round him. “Ah, not that, Paul—not that.”
“But listen, dearest,” he said. “We’ve got to look at things as they are. There is no profession open to me in which I am likely to make more than I can by my painting. I have lost every penny of capital. God! how sordid it seems that the lack of money should keep us apart. But there it is. It may be years before I make more, though Heaven knows I’d paint every commonplace creature in creation in return for shekels now. I hate my own fastidiousness. I’ve lost dozens of commissions and made not a few enemies. It will take ages to make up for my folly. At the best it must be years before I have anything like a decent income.” He stopped. He had loathed having to speak the bare commonplace facts.