Why had she come on Tuesday, the second morning?
Why had she desired to come yet again?
Had he read her face truly?
He knew, he knew with miserable certainty, that she did not love Grail.
She had not known what love was; a child, so merely a child! But when love once was born in her, would it not be for life and death?
He was lying on the sofa again, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Moisture stood upon his forehead, formed into beads and ran off.

His torment was that of the rack.

He believed that Thyrza had at least begun to love him.

Madman that he was, he _hoped_ it! Thyrza's love was a thing for which one would dare uttermost perdition, the blind leap once taken.
Yes, but that leap he would not take; he was on firm ground; he knew what honour meant; he acknowledged the sanctity of obligations between man and man.
But if she loved _him_, was it right that she should wed Grail?
Obligations, forsooth! Was it not his first duty to save her from a terrible self-sacrifice?
What could overrule love?
There was time to intervene; four days more, and it would be too late for ever--for ever.
What hideous things might result from conscientiousness such as he was now striving to preserve.
'Thyrza! She is waiting there, waiting for _me_ to come to her.