The above illustration concerns what happens on P. 185-186 which reads as follows:

"My darling! I love you so." [says Peter Oxley]

"I am glad you do," whispered back Midge, with a happy sound like an unborn laugh in her voice; and with both hands upraised, she caressingly put back her lover's face a little way from her own. "Shall I tell you a great secret? that I..love you..too." Her voice became quite small at the last words; and his face at that eagerly approaching hers again, her lips just brushed it though as lightly, as softly, as might the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

Light as the touch was, it seemed to galvanise Oxley. With a smothered groan, he drew back - and letting Midge go out of his slackened arms, he put up one hand over his eyes.

She stood astonished, frightened. "You are ill," she faltered. "What is it? Speak to me."

"No, dear. I am not ill," answered Oxley, heavily, as if struggling under some nightmare oppression...