“Politics for me,” said one confidently. “We’re going to run the country from this end now. I’m for Mart Embree’s band-wagon.” “Too dull,” said another. “Gimme a touch of Nuh York.” “It’s a rough world for poor, lost lambs like us to be spilled into, anyway,” boomed a resonant bass from the stern seat, and their laughter died away around the bend of the island. Marcia Ames freed her fingers from her companion’s clasp. “Jem,” she said. “I love you,” he said. Her figure, dim-white in the darkness, neither withdrew from nor swayed toward him. But he thought that he saw her head half turn with a sorrowful intent. “Jem,” she said again, “I came here to--” “I love you, Marcia,” he repeated with a still insistence. “Wait. I am going away.” “When?” “Very soon. This week. Perhaps sooner.” “For how long?” “Will you not understand, Jem? I am going away.” The quiet repetition fell, chill and deadening, upon his heart. “From me?” “From everything here.” “Why?” “I must.” “Then you don’t care!” She was silent. “You’re going back?” He made an obvious effort to gather his force for the determinative word. “Abroad?” “Yes.” “I’ll follow you,” he declared grimly. “Now you are angry with me, are you not?” She spoke with a sorrowful, disappointed intonation. “Have n’t I a right to be?” “Have you?” “Tell me, if you can, that you have n’t cared for me a bit; not at any time. You see,” he added with conviction but without triumph, “you can’t!” “If I had ever cried--in my life--since I was a child--I think--I should cry now,” she said, in little, uneven sections of speech. “Marcia!” All the anger passed away from Jem, leaving him shaken. “Don’t feel that way. What has happened? What have I done to change you toward me?” “I cannot tell you--more than I have told you.” “Try,” he urged. “Let’s have it out!” “I am not clever at explaining. Not--not such things as this. There is something that rises up inside and--and forbids. Oh, Jem! You must know, without my putting it into words.” “It’s that cursed Wade story, of course. But that’s because you don’t understand. Surely, between you and me a--a petty little matter such as that--” “Petty!” “Why, Marcia, it’s just part of the day’s work. Ask any newspaper man. Ask Andrew Galpin.” “Who has perhaps half-spoiled his life by defending his friend.” “That’s different--I’d have done that.” “Would you?” “Can’t you believe that of me, Marcia? Do you think I’m a coward?” “Falsehood is always cowardly,” she said very low. “Perhaps I am abnormal about it. I cannot help it. I was bred that way.” “But try to be fair to me,” he pleaded. “Fair to you? I was more than that. I could not believe that you had written it. When I went into Eli Wade’s shop that morning there was a strange, violent white-haired little man there with him--” “Nick Milliken.”