"If it had been you, Peter. . . . It's easy to keep faith when one loves."
"And are you being faithful—even to our love?" he asked quietly.
"To our love?" she whispered.
"There is a faithfulness of the Spirit, Nan—the only faithfulness possible to those who are set apart as we are."
He broke off and stood silent a moment, looking down at her with hard, hurt eyes. Presently he went on:
"That was all we might keep, you and I—our faith. Honour binds each of us to someone else. But"—his voice vibrating—"honour doesn't bind you to Maryon Rooke! If you go with him, you betray our love—the part of it that nothing can touch or spoil if we so will it. You won't do that, Nan. . . . You can't do it!"
She knew, then, that she would have to go back, go back and keep faith with Roger—and keep that deeper faith which love itself demanded.
Her head drooped, and she stretched out her hands as though seeking something of which they might lay hold. Peter took them into his and held them.
After a while a slight tremor ran through her body, and she drew herself away from him, relinquishing his hands.
"I'll go back," she said. "You've won, Peter. I can't . . . hurt . . . our love."