"No, I 'd be a very poor sort," he laughed, "if I stopped work because I was rich. I 'd have no self-respect--" "No?" she said dully. The trembling had passed now. She was just numb, numb and dead. "But as to marrying an Irish girl, Lady Margery--Margery--" She stood up and turned about. She was smiling quizzically. "You 're not proposing to marry me, are you?" "Yes." "Don't. Don't, O'Conor," she said. "Please don't." "Why?" "Because of this--" she looked at him squarely--"I like you. I like you immensely. To me you 're everything a man should be, but just--I don't seem to see you that way. I don't love--do you see? And I don't think I ever could. No. I never could." "Well, that's straight. Thanks." "Are we friends still?" "Of course, but--" He smiled. "Do you mind if I go?" "I 'll see you out myself. "O'Conor," she half whispered in the hall, "I'm an awful son of a gun. I should love you--you 're so fine, so decent, so--so everything--but I don't. I 'm sure I could never love any one. I 'm a very selfish woman, I sometimes think. It wouldn't have been worth while marrying me." "You're not selfish, and you're very sweet, Margery." "No, no! Shall I see you again?" "I 'm afraid not. To-morrow I go to London, and from there to Africa." "O'Conor, will you do something for me because we are friends?" "Yes." "Will you send me pictures of South Africa, and an occasional one of you, because we are friends?" "Yes, Margery." "And, O'Conor, if twenty years from now you want to settle down, come to me and let me find you a nice girl to marry--oh! the nicest girl in the world--or if you are sick or crippled, come." He smiled. "Promise me." "All right, Margery. I will." He put out his hand. "O'Conor," she said. Again she was trembling, but her voice--thank God!--her voice was all right. "I know you 're disappointed, and--O'Conor, would it help if you kissed me?" "No," he said, "I 'm afraid it would hurt more. So I won't." "I suppose it would hurt more." She stepped forward and put out her hand. "I am always your friend, O'Conor, your assured friend. And good-by now, O'Conor, and God bless you wherever you go!" "And you too, Margery." "You 'll come back, O'Conor, if you 're sick or hurt, or want to settle down, and talk to me about it--your friend, O'Conor, your little Irish friend. You won't forget?" "I 'll never forget." He walked down the path under the cloud-touched moon. Would he look back? No, he would n't. He did n't. Oh, there went a man! VIII She heard the wicket-gate close, and in her heart she knew that she would never again see him. No gray eyes any more, nor curly hair. Her face had become now a white and quivering mask. She snatched a cloak up and, wrapping it round her, she went blindly into the garden. She began to shake with great silent sobs. Her face was wet now, and she could n't see. She sank at the roots of the mountain-ash.