From the moment she had learned the truth about her husband, her
thoughts had centred solely round herself, dwelling--in, all humility,
it is true--but still dwelling none the less egotistically upon her
personal failure, her own irreparable mistake, her self-wrought
bankruptcy of all the faith and absolute belief a woman loves to give
her lover. She had thrust these things before his happiness, whereas
the stern and simple creed of love places the loved one first and
everything else immeasurably second.
But now, in this quickened moment of revelation, Diana knew that she
loved Max utterly and entirely, that his happiness was her supreme
need, and that if she let him go from her again, life would be
henceforth a poor, maimed thing, shorn of all meaning.
It no longer mattered that she had sinned against him, that she had
nothing to bring, that she must go to him a beggar. The scales had
fallen from her eyes, and she realised that in love there is no
reckoning--no pitiful making-up of accounts. The pride that cannot
take has no place there; where love is, giving and taking are one and
indivisible.
Nothing mattered any longer--nothing except that Max was here--here,
within reach of the great love in her heart that was stretching out its
arms to him . . . calling him back.
The audience, ardently applauding her first song, saw her turn and give
some brief instruction to her accompanist, who nodded, laying aside the
song which she had just placed upon the music-desk.
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