“Because I am human,” Fane answered.
“And we did not say good-bye,” she said.
Fane was strung up. Conflicting feelings found a wild playground in his soul. His nerves were in a state of abnormal excitement, and something seemed to let go in him—the something that holds us back, normally, from mad follies. He suddenly caught Sydney's hand, and in a choked voice said:—
“He is dead. Think a little of the living.”
She looked at him, wondering.
“Think of the living that love you. He neither hates nor loves any more. Sydney! Sydney!”
As she understood his meaning she wrung her hand out of his, and said, as one trying to clear the road for reason:—
“You love me, and he bought you to keep him alive. Why, then—”
A sick, white change came over her face.