“The Guardian. Myself. It’s the same thing.” “Then does not that give me a right in the paper? A moral right?” she argued with bewitching earnestness. “Granted. Put in anything you like but your money.” “Jem! Please!” she pleaded. “Will you not take it if--” “Not with any if.” She rose and came to him around the corner of the table, and set her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were steady, clear, courageous upon his, but her whole face flushed into a glorious shame and her voice shook and fluttered as she spoke again. “Not if--not even if--I go with it?” “No,” said Jem. But his face was like that of one in a mortal struggle. For a moment there was a flash of fear in her regard. “Jem! There is not--some one else?” “How could there be?” he said simply. “How could there be!” she repeated with a caressing contentment. “I knew there could not be.” “There never could. How did you know?” She stepped back from him. “By what I felt, myself.” She laughed a little tremulously. “I should have read it in The Guardian. Between the lines.” “But--” he began. “There was----Miss Pritchard told me--” “Yes,” she assented gravely. “There was. It was a formal betrothal. But when I saw him again I knew that I could not. It was no fault of his--nor mine. I remembered,” she said very low, “that night. That last night. On the bridge. Four years ago. My dear! _Was_ it four years ago?” Her eyes, her voice yearned to him, wooed him. Jem’s knuckles were white with the force of the grip wherewith he held to the table. “Marcia!” he began. “It made no difference,” she went on dreamily, “whether I was ever to see you again or not. I did not believe then that I ever should. But whether or not, there could be no one else. Some women are like that, Jem. ‘Once is forever, and once alone!’ I think a woman wrote that.... And you have not even said I was welcome.” “I dare n’t!” he burst out. “I dare n’t tell you what I feel--what I’m struggling against. Marcia, I’m down and out.” “Does that matter?” she broke in proudly. “It matters everything. I can’t take your money. I can’t ask you to marry me. There’s nothing ahead of me.” “Mr. Galpin says that The Guardian is the one big, fighting energy--” “Andy Galpin is a loyal fool. He’s the best and finest and stanchest friend ever a blunderer like me had. Poor devil! He’s put every cent he’s got into the fight--” “And you will not let me put in my share?” “Share? Don’t talk nonsense, Marcia. No.” “Not even a little part?” “Not a cent!” “And you will not even marry me?” “No,” groaned the sorely beset Jem. “Very well. I think it very hard.” There was a palpable, even an exaggerated, droop to the tender and mobile lips; but in the depths of Marcia’s eyes twin devils of defiance and determination danced. “Good-night, Jem. No! You shall _not_ take me downstairs.”