“Yes. He said what--what you have said; that it was all part of the day’s work; that you were no worse than any other reporter. He said that you had boasted to him that nobody could control your pen.” Jeremy groaned. “It’s true.” “And then he laughed, and said things about you that I would not endure to hear--as I told him.” “You defended me against Milliken!” “I tried to.” “Can’t you defend me against yourself, Marcia?” He could hear her long, slow-drawn breath before she answered. “I could defend you against _yourself_, in my own heart. But I cannot defend the ideal of you that I had built up, against what you have done to it.” “Could n’t you have told me?” “Told you what, Jem?” “That I did represent an ideal to you..Think what it would have meant to me to--to know that.” Something told him that she was smiling in the darkness and that there was pain and pity as well as a sweet mockery in the smile. “Could I tell you that before you told me--what you have told me to-night?” “That I love you? You can’t pretend that you did n’t know it. But I’d no business to tell you then: I’ve no business to tell you now,” he added gloomily. “What have I got to offer a girl like you!” “That would not matter,” she answered him proudly. “It is the other that matters.” “Wade, again! I can’t see that it matters so much, even to him. How was I to guess that it would hurt a simple-minded old dreamer of that sort?” “Have you been to see him since?” “No.” “Why not?” The direct query had the stunning force of accusation. “You’re right,” he said dully. “I knew all the time it was a rotten thing to do, only I would n’t face it. And I’ve kept away from the Boot & Shoe Infirmary because I was afraid to go there. It’s curious,” he added, in a flat, detached manner of speech, “how the little things of life--the things you think are little--wreck the whole business for you, when it’s too late to do anything.” “Jem!” gasped the girl. “I cannot bear to hear you talk so. It--it is unlike you. It hurts me.” “I don’t want to hurt you, dear, Heaven knows. I only want to get this clear. You--you think I’m unfit to be--that I’m untrustworthy. Is that it?” “Am I being very cruel?” she whispered. “You’ve answered. It’s the truth that’s cruel, not you.” “I must trust. Absolutely. Or--there is nothing.” “I see. When do you go?” Of a sudden her strong young arms were about his shoulders; her hot, sweet face was pressed against his. He felt the quick throbbing of the vein in her temple, and was shaken to the foundations of his being with the dear and bewildering shock of it. “Oh, Jem!” Her whisper fluttered close to his ear. “Why do you _let_ me go! Never let me go. It breaks my heart to go. To leave you. Never to see you again. Why must I go!” “You mustn’t. You shan’t. Marcia, darling! After this you can’t leave me.”