you that you are the only woman with whom I have wished to live, as we
might live if you would. I can't make you see, I'm conscious, what I feel
about Sanchia--but it's certainly not that. My little dear, can't you
trust me?" He looked down, and saw her tears slowly dropping; he was very
much moved, knelt by her side. She turned her face away, dangerously moved
also. She struggled with her tears, her face contorted, her bosom heaving
in riot. Senhouse took her hands, but she wrenched them away and covered
her face with them. Passion grew upon her, passion of regret, of loss, of
rage, of desire--"Oh, leave me, leave me! Oh, cruel, cruel! No man in the
world could be so cruel--" and then she sprang up, and faced him, flushed
and fierce as a woman whom love has made mad.

"I believed in you, I gave you everything I had. You have had it, and you
leave me. I made no pretences--I told you all my secrets. You said that
you loved me--and now you leave me. Go, please. I hope I shall never see
you again."

Her great eyes loomed in her hot face like beacons. Her colour was high,
her lips vivid. She looked as beautiful as an Indian flower. She was
fighting for her own like a cat. An absent, shadowy, icily-pure Sanchia
could never contend with this quivering reality of scarlet and burning
brown; and the man stood disarmed before her, watching her every movement
and sensible of every call of her body. Her wild words provoked him, her
beauty melted him; pity for her, shame, memories of what he had believed
her, impossible visions of what she might be; he was tossed this way and
that, was whirled, engulfed, overwhelmed. There is only one end to such
strifes. With a short cry, he threw up his arms.

"God help us, I stay," he said.