Even in her pain she felt it better to have found this deep and ruinous joy, to have wrestled with the Angel and been worsted, than never to have looked upon his face.

If she could only know that what she gave was given back again, that he loved her as she loved him, she would be content.

She was innocent, she had never tried to draw him to her; she had used no touch or look, no woman's arts or lures such as her beauty placed at her command.

There had been no word spoken, scarcely a meaning glance had passed between them, nothing but frank and free companionship as of man with man.

She knew he did not love his wife and that his wife did not love him--this she could _see_.