it lasts all our lives."

He walked to the door, trained the glass again on the hill, then
afterwards turned round, and said:

"If ever you think of riding the White Bluff road--straight for the cliff
itself and over--tell me, and I'll ride it with you. If it's all wrong
as it is, it's all wrong for both, and, maybe, the worst of what comes
after is better than the worst of what is here."

They had been frank with each other in the past, but never so frank as
this. He was determined that they should be still more frank; and so was
she. "Alice," he said--

"Wait a minute," she interjected. "I have something to say, Tom. I
never told you--indeed, I thought I never should tell you; but now I
think it's best to do so. I loved a man once--with all my soul."

"You love him still," was the reply; and he screwed and unscrewed the
field-glass in his hand, looking bluntly at her the while. She nodded,
returning his gaze most earnestly and choking back a sob.

"Well, it's a pity, it's a pity," he replied. "We oughtn't to live
together as it is. It's all wrong; it's wicked--I can see that now."

"You are not angry with me?" she answered in surprise.

"You can't help it, I suppose," he answered drearily.

"Do you really mean," she breathlessly said, "that we might as well die