it will make a difference, a painful difference, between us."

"No, George"--it was the first time she had called him that--"nothing can
make any difference with that."

He told her simply, bravely--she was herself so brave--what there was to
tell, that two weeks ago her husband was alive, and that he was now on his
way to England--perhaps in England itself. She took it with an unnatural
quietness. She grew distressingly pale, but that was all. Her hand lay
clinched tightly on the seat beside her. He reached out, took it, and
pressed it, but she shook her head.

"Please do not sympathize with me," she said. "I cannot bear it. I am not
adamant. You are very good--so good to me that no unhappiness can be all
unhappiness. But let us look not one step farther into the future."

"What you wish I shall do always."

"Not what I wish, but what you and I ought to do is plain."

"I ask one thing only. I have said that I love you, said it as I shall
never say it to another woman, as I never said it before. Say to me once
here, before we know what the future will be, that you love me. Then I can
bear all."

She turned and looked him full in the eyes, that infinite flame in her own
which burns all passions into one. "I cannot, dear," she said.

Then she hurriedly rose, her features quivering. Without a word they went
down the quiet path to the river and on toward the gates of the park