“My dear…” he said, and knelt beside her chair, drawing her into his arms. “You’re over-wrought, love. You cannot mean what you say! It’s our lives, dear one, yours and mine. Can’t you forget Mathew? Can’t you trust yourself to me?”

She was weeping now, quietly, her cheek against his.

“You are fighting still, Mary? Nothing matters save that we love.”

“Ah, no, no!” she sobbed.

“Listen, Mary! I want to take you home—to my home in Italy. I will be so good to you, dear—I swear it! I want to take you to find happiness. There is so little in the world, child, one should seize what comes gratefully. I want to take you to Venice. Do you know it, my dear? There is a house there, an old, old house, deserted now, where I was born.

“I have not seen it since my boyhood—oh, a long time ago, Mary! But it is there still, as it was left, awaiting my return. Do you think I have not dreamed of you there? I see you as its mistress, dear—its wonderful mistress. I see you in every room, in every corner of its gardens. And I want to go back there—with you. Ah, Mary, don’t turn away! It would be the fulfilment of my dreams!”

She loosened the clasp about her with trembling fingers.

“Do not, oh, do not, my lord! I—I am not that kind of woman! I cannot… I cannot…!”

He carried her hands to his lips.

“Afraid, dear heart? Afraid, and with me?”

She looked sadly down into the tired, wistful eyes.

And you, Henry? What would you do there?” She touched his cheeks lingeringly. “You think to cast this fashionable life behind you, but I know it is impossible.”

“Ah no, by God!” he cried. “Do you think it cures me? I hate every minute I spend in London when not at your side! I am sick unto death of the life we all lead. I want to start afresh, with you at my side!”

“I cannot! Don’t ask me, Henry! Please, please be merciful! I want you to help me—you’ve always been—so kind! Don’t fail me now!”

He still held her hands.

“What is it you want of me?” he asked. His voice had sunk back into its level sweetness.

“Separate them. Hurry, for my sake! It—it is the last thing I shall ask of you.” She pressed his fingers, leaning forward. “You could win her from him, Henry! You could!”

He seemed to shrug.

“For how long? A month? A day? An hour?”

“Long enough, my dearest. Just to give me back my brother! You could do it!”

“Ay, I could do it. Do you know what it means? It means feigning a love I do not feel. I must hold her in my arms as I hold you now, and I must kiss her painted lips. Have you thought what that means, Mary?”

Her head was bowed.

“She is your wife,” she whispered.