He loved her now.

Under another name, in a vision, with another face and another voice, yet, still, she was herself.
As in a storm the thunder-claps came crashing through the air, deafening and appalling at first, then rolling swiftly into a far distance, fainter and fainter, till all is still and only the plash of the fast-falling rain is heard, so, as she listened, the tempest of her pain was passing away.

Easier and easier it became to hear herself called Beatrice, easier and easier it grew to take the other's place, to accept the kiss, the touch, the word, the pressure of the hand that were all another's due, and given to herself only for the mask she wore in his dream.
And the tide of the great temptation rose, and fell a little, and rose higher again each time, till it washed the fragile feet of the last good thought that lingered, taking refuge on the highest point above the waves.

On and on it came, receding and coming back, higher and higher, surer and surer.

Had she drawn back in time it would have been so easy.
Had she turned and fled when the first moment of senseless joy was over, when she could still feel all the shame, and blush for all the abasement, it would have been over now, and she would have been safe.
But she had learned to look upon the advancing water, and the sound of it had no more terror for her.