She tried to speak, but her lips moved soundlessly. Only her eyes, meeting his, held a mute agony that tortured him. All at once his self-control gave way, and the passion of love and longing against which he had been fighting swept aside the barriers which circumstance had placed about it. His arms went round her, holding her close while he rained kisses on her throat and lips and eyes—fierce, desperate kisses that burned against her face. And Nan kissed him back, yielding up her soul upon her lips, knowing that after this last passionate farewell there could he no more giving or receiving. Only a forgetting.
. . . At last they drew apart from one another, though Peter's arms still held her, but only tenderly as for the last time.
"This is good-bye, dearest of all," he said presently.
"Yes," she answered gravely. "I know."
"Heart's beloved, try not to be too sad," he went on. "Try to find happiness in other things. We can never be together—never be more than friends, but I shall be your lover always—always, Nan—through this world into the next."
Her hand stole into his.
"As I yours, Peter."
It was as though some solemn pledge had passed between them—a spiritual troth which nothing in this world could either touch or tarnish. Neither Peter's marriage nor the rash promise Nan had given to Roger could impinge on it. It would carry them through the complex disarray of this world to the edge of the world beyond.
Some time passed before either of them spoke again. Then Peter said quite simply:
"We must go home, dear."