The gardens were very different, now. The trees had burst forth again into leaf, the spiraea bushes seemed weighted down with snow, and with a note like that of the quivering bass string of a 'cello the bees hummed among the fruit blossoms. And there beside me in her filmy dress was Maude, a part of it all--the meaning of all that set my being clamouring. She was like some ripened, delicious flower ready to be picked.... One of those pernicious, make-believe volumes had fallen on the bench between us, for I could not read any more; I could not think; I touched her hand, and when she drew it gently away I glanced at her. Reason made a valiant but hopeless effort to assert itself. Was I sure that I wanted her--for life? No use! I wanted her now, no matter what price that future might demand. An awkward silence fell between us--awkward to me, at least--and I, her guide and mentor, became banal, apologetic, confused. I made some idiotic remark about being together in the Garden of Eden. “I remember Mr. Doddridge saying in Bible class that it was supposed to be on the Euphrates,” she replied. “But it's been destroyed by the flood.” “Let's make another--one of our own,” I suggested. “Why, how silly you are this afternoon.” “What's to prevent us--Maude?” I demanded, with a dry throat. “Nonsense!” she laughed. In proportion as I lost poise she seemed to gain it. “It's not nonsense,” I faltered. “If we were married.” At last the fateful words were pronounced--irrevocably. And, instead of qualms, I felt nothing but relief, joy that I had been swept along by the flood of feeling. She did not look at me, but gazed straight ahead of her. “If I love you, Maude?” I stammered, after a moment. “But I don't love you,” she replied, steadily. Never in my life had I been so utterly taken aback. “Do you mean,” I managed to say, “that after all these months you don't like me a little?” “'Liking' isn't loving.” She looked me full in the face. “I like you very much.” “But--” there I stopped, paralyzed by what appeared to me the quintessence of feminine inconsistency and caprice. Yet, as I stared at her, she certainly did not appear capricious. It is not too much to say that I was fairly astounded at this evidence of self-command and decision, of the strength of mind to refuse me. Was it possible that she had felt nothing and I all? I got to my feet. “I hate to hurt your feelings,” I heard her say. “I'm very sorry.”... She looked up at me. Afterwards, when reflecting on the scene, I seemed to remember that there were tears in her eyes. I was not in a condition to appreciate her splendid sincerity. I was overwhelmed and inarticulate. I left her there, on the bench, and went back to George's, announcing my intention of taking the five o'clock train....