But her hand lay limply, coldly in his; her lips were mute, tremulously curving; her eyes asked nothing more.
"Good night, Ailsa."
"Good night."
There was colour, still, in his marred young face, grace, still, in his body, in the slightly lowered head as he looked down at her.
"I must not come again, Ailsa."
Then her pulses died. "Why?"
"Because—I am afraid to love you."
It did not seem that she even breathed, so deathly still she stood.
"Is that—-your reason?"
"Yes. I have no right to love you."