If
he did, she would be quite justified in flinging his tardy assurances of
faith back in his face and thanking him for something of very trifling
value. Even if out of the limitless tenderness of her woman's heart
Ann forgave him--as, God knows, women are forgiving men every day
that dawns!--still their love would be robbed of something infinitely
precious--tarnished by an ugly and abiding memory. What was it Ann herself
had said about love? "_It's faith... and trust, Eliot_." He remembered her
grave, steadfast eyes and groaned in spirit, realising that he himself had
despoiled love of its very pith and marrow, its deepest inner significance.
There was no way out--no atonement possible.
Motionless, sunk in the inferno of his own thoughts, Eliot remained where
Tony had left him until one of the hotel employes, who had several times
glanced uneasily in the direction of the silent Englishman occupying the
seat by the window, finally plucked up courage to begin switching off the
lights for the night.
"_Pardon, m'sieu_". he murmured deprecatingly as he passed by the still
figure in the course of his tour of the room.
Eliot stared at the man with blank, incurious eyes.
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