He turned abruptly away from her, and for a moment did not speak. Then at last, his voice low, he faced her again and asked:

“Have I offended?”

She shook her head.

“No,” he said, quietly. “No, I knew it was not that.” There was a long silence. The artist looked at the floor his hand slowly stroking the back of one of the big leather chairs.

“I knew it must come,” he answered, at length, “sooner or later. You are right⁠—of course. I should not have come back to America. I should not have believed that I was strong enough to trust myself. Then”⁠—he looked at her steadily. His words came from his lips one by one, very slowly. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Then, I am⁠—never to see you⁠—again⁠ ⁠… Is that it?”

“Yes.”