It seems like a dream to him; a dream that will never be forgotten, that will haunt his memory with a vivid thrill of pain whenever he feels the scents of mountain air, or sees the gleam of quiet stars. With them, too, he will see the little balcony of the quaint old "Hof," and a slender figure with draperies of dusky black, and a face white, solemn, inexpressibly sad that looks back to his.
"Keith," she says, very gently, "there has come a time when I must be frank with you. You say you do not forget, that you cannot. In that case, if you have any honour at all, you must see that you should avoid me. Of myself, of my pain, I will not speak. What use? Between us two lies a barrier we can never cross. When you say such words to me as you have said to-night, you make the very question of friendship an impossibility. Is there any thought in our minds that in any way is cold enough for that. I doubt it. Mind, I say 'ours.' I make no pretence at deceiving you."
"You do not deny that you love me?"
"Of what use?" she says. "I made a fatal error in my marriage. But error or not, I must keep to it and its consequences. Only, Keith, if you had any pity, and mercy, you would avoid me, leave me to fight out my life alone. At least I owe my husband—fidelity."
A hundred words rush to his lips. It is in his mind then to tell her of what her husband really is; of the scandals that are whispered in club and boudoir, over cigarettes and Souchong, but something restrains him. It would be mean, he thinks; and, after all, would it make any difference to her? Had she been any other woman.... And, after all, she loves him, not her husband. On that small crumb of comfort he feeds his starved and aching heart, standing there beside her, silent, troubled, fighting against every wild and passionate impulse that bids him fling honour and scruples to the wind, and snatch at the perilous joy of a sinful happiness.
"Yes," she says, with a heavy sigh. "I must at least give that. The best part of me and my life is laid in the grave of my little child. Often I think I shall never feel glad again, but after to-night I leave it to you whether you are to make my life harder for me, or help me to struggle against myself."
His eyes gleam with momentary anger, petulance, pride. "You give me a hard enough task, I hope," he says passionately. "And yet your last words hold all the tempting that could possibly beset a man. Why should I save you from yourself? By heaven if you loved me, if you only knew how I love you, you would not count the cost of anything that stood between us and our happiness!"
"Would it be happiness?" answers Lauraine. "I think not, Keith. Is a guilty love ever happy? Does it ever last? If it did the world would not teem with forsaken women, nor the rivers of our great cities bear such burdens of shame and despair."
"You do not know me, if you doubt. Have I not been true to you, since, boy and girl, we stood together, and played at sweethearts in the old Grange garden at Silverthorne? Till I die I shall remember you, and love you, Lorry."
"Other men have said the same, and have forgotten."