And Jean, starved for four long months of the touch of the beloved arms, the pressure of the beloved lips upon her own, had yielded to him almost before she was aware of her surrender.
Then the remembrance of the woman who stood between them rushed across her and she tore herself free from his embrace, white and trembling in every limb.
“Blaise!... Blaise!... What are you thinking of? Oh! We’re mad—mad!”
She covered her face with her shaking hands but he drew them away, gazing down at her with eyes that worshipped.
“No, beloved, we’re not mad,” lie cried triumphantly. “We’re sane—sane at last. We were mad to think we could live apart, mad to dream we could starve love like ours. That was when we were mad! But we’ll never be parted again; sweet——”
“Blaise,” she whispered, staring at him with horrified, dilated eyes. “You don’t know what you are saying! You’re forgetting Nesta—your wife. Oh, go—go quickly! You must not stay here and talk like this to me!”
“No,” he returned. “I won’t go, Jean. I’ve come to take you away with me.” Once more his arms went round her. “Belovedest, I can’t live without you any longer. I’ve tried—and I can’t do it. Jean, you’ll come? You love me enough—enough to come away with me to the ends of the earth where we’ll find happiness at last?”
She sought to free herself from his, clasp, pressing with straining hands against his chest.
“No! No!” she cried breathlessly. “I can’t go with you... you know I can’t! Ah! Don’t ask me, Blaise!” There was an agony of supplication in her voice.
“But I do ask you. And if you love me”—his eyes holding hers—“you’ll come, Jean.”