She held out her work-roughened hands, while the keen-edged sunlight pitilessly revealed the hollowed line of cheek and throat, the lustreless dark hair, the fine lines that Pain, the great Sculptor, had graved about her mouth.
“You are an artist before everything, Michael,” she said. “Look—look well!”
He took the two work-worn hands in his and drew her nearer him.
“I’m your lover before everything,” he answered. “When will you come to me, Magda?”
“No, no,” she said whisperingly. “I mustn’t come. You’ll never—never quite forgive me. Some day the past would come between us again—you’ll never forget it all.”
“No,” he replied steadily. “Perhaps not. Consequences cannot be evaded. There are things that can’t be forgotten. But one forgives. And I love you—love you, Magda, so that I can’t face life without you.” His voice vibrated. “The past must always lie like a shadow on our love. But you’re my woman—my soul! And if you’ve sinned, then it must be my sin, too——”
She leaned away from him.
“Do you mean—June?” she asked.
He nodded with set lips.
“Then—then you don’t know—you haven’t heard?”