"It isn't possible—not yet," he said wearily. "You're asking what I cannot do."
She took a step nearer.
"Tell me this, then. What did Olga Lermontof mean when she bade me ask your name? Oh!"—with a quick intake of her breath—"you must answer that, Max; you must tell me that. I have a right to know it!"
For a moment he was silent, while she waited, eager-eyed, tremulously appealing, for his answer. At last it came.
"No," he said inflexibly. "You have no—right—to ask anything I haven't chosen to tell you. When you gave me your love, you gave me your faith, too. I warned you what it might mean—but you gave it. And I"—his voice deepened—"I worshipped you for it! But I see now, I asked too much of you. More"—cynically—"than any woman has to give."
"Then—then"—her voice trembled—"you mean you won't tell me anything more?"
"I can't."
"And—and Adrienne? Everything must go on just the same?"
"Just the same"—implacably.
She looked at him, curiously.