"Oh, no," she said, shaking her head. "It's not that. I've . . . no
pride . . . left, I think. But I can't be mean--_mean_ enough to crawl
back now." She paused, then went on with an inflection of irony in her
low, broken voice. "'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.'
. . . Well, I'm reaping--that's all."
Like the keen thrust of a knife came Olga's answer.
"And must he, too, reap your sowing? For that's what it amounts to--that
Max must suffer for your sin. Oh! He's paid enough for others! . . .
Diana"--imploringly--"Max is leaving England to-night. Go back to him
now--don't wait until it's too late,"
"No." Diana spoke in dead, flat tones. "Can't you understand?"--moving
her head restlessly. "Do you suppose--even if he forgave me--that he
could ever believe in me again? He would never be certain that I really
trusted him. He would always feel unsure of me."
"If you can think that, then you haven't understood Max--or his love for
you," retorted Olga vehemently. "Oh! How can I make you see it? You
keep on balancing this against that--what you can give, what Max can
believe--weighing out love as though it were sold by the ounce! Max
loves you--_loves you_! And there _aren't_ any limitations to love!"
She broke off abruptly, her voice shaking. "Can't you believe it?" she
added helplessly, after a minute.
Diana shook her head.
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