What would Max have said to that emphatic declaration of hers? But
surely it was Max, and none other, who had inspired it.
Surely--surely--ah, what was this that was happening to her? What magic
was at work? She suddenly lifted her face to the dazzling summer sky. A
brief giddiness possessed her--and passed. She was as one over whom a
mighty wave had dashed. She came up from it, breathless, trembling, yet
with a throbbing ecstasy at her heart such as she had never known
before. For the impossible had happened to her. She realized it now.
She--Olga Ratcliffe, the ordinary, the colourless, the prosaic--was
caught in the grip of the Unknown Power, that Immortal Wonder which for
lack of a better name men call Romance. And she knew it, she exulted in
it, she stretched out her woman's hands to grasp it, as a babe will
seek to grasp the sunshine, possessing and possessed.

In that moment she acknowledged that the bitter struggle through which
she had just come had been indeed worth while. It had exhausted her,
terrified her; but it had shown her her heart in such a fashion as to
leave no room for doubt or misunderstanding. Even yet she quivered with
the rapture of the revelation. It thrilled her through and through. For
she knew that Max Wyndham reigned there in complete and undisputed
possession. No other man had entered before him, or would ever enter
after....

Slowly, reluctantly, she came back from her Elysium. She descended to
earth and faced again the difficulties of the way.

She opened her eyes upon the yacht still running seawards, and decided
that they must turn. She wondered if Hunt-Goring had regained his
self-control, if he were ashamed of himself, if possibly he might bring