She smiled, rather dubiously I thought. "But surely you are aware that she loves you even now," Eva answered. "Loves me!" I echoed in surprise. "That's absolutely ridiculous. Since we parted not a single word of affection has ever been uttered between us." "And you actually do not love her?" she asked in deep earnestness, looking straight into my eyes. "Are you really certain?" "I do not," I answered. "I swear I don't." The boat was drifting, and with a swift stroke of the oars I ran her bows into the bank. Overhead the larks were singing their joyous songs and the hot air seemed to throb with the humming of a myriad insects. The afternoon was gloriously sunny, and away in the meadow on the opposite bank a picnic party were busy preparing their tea amid peals of feminine laughter. "Well," she sighed, "I can only regret that you have spoken as you have to-day. I regret it the more because I esteem your friendship highly, Mr. Urwin. We might have been friends--but lovers we may never be!" "Why never?" I inquired, acutely disappointed. "There are circumstances which entirely prevent such a course," she answered. "Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to be more explicit." "So you are prevented by some utterly inexplicable circumstances from loving me?" I observed, greatly puzzled. "Yes," she responded, toying with the tassel of her sunshade. "But tell me, Eva," I asked hoarsely, again grasping her chilly, nervous hand, "can you never love me? Are you actually convinced that in your own heart you have no spark of affection for me?" She paused, then glanced at me. I fancied I saw in her blue eyes the light of unshed tears. "Your question is a rather difficult one," she faltered. "Even if I reciprocated your love our positions would not be altered. We should still be alienated as we now are." "Why?" "Because--because we may not love each other," she answered, in a low, strained voice--the voice of a woman terribly agitated. "Let us part to-day and never again meet. It will be best for both of us--far the best." "No," I cried, intensely in earnest. "I cannot leave you, Eva, because I love you far too dearly. If you cannot love me now, then bear with me a little, and you will later learn to love me." "In one year, nay, in ten, my answer must, of necessity, be the same as it is to-day," she responded. "A negative one." "As vague as it is cruel," I observed. "Its vagueness is imperative," she said. "You are loved by another, and I have therefore no right to a place in your heart." "You are cruel, Eva!" I cried reproachfully. "My love for Mary Blain has been dead these three years. By mutual consent we gave each other freedom, and since that hour all has been over between us." "But what if Mary still loves you?" she suggested. "You were once her affianced husband."