“Last night,” he said, “moved by an excitement to which I fancied myself immune, certain words were surprised from me.” “I don’t remember,” Carmel said, weakly. “Pardon me,” he said, “you _do_ remember. Your manner toward me assures me of your complete recollection.” “Indeed!” “However, in order to avoid misapprehensions I shall refresh your memory. My words, and I remember them exactly, were as follows: ‘I believe I’ve fallen in love with you.’” “Oh, _that_,” said Carmel, as if the matter were of no moment. “That.... Exactly. Er--your physical peril aroused in me an excitement and apprehension most distasteful to me. I have been puzzled for some time with respect to yourself and the strange effect your presence has upon me. The matter became clear last night. I said I believed I was in love with you. That was inaccurate. I _knew_ I was in love with you.” “But----” Carmel began. Evan held up his hand as to an interruption in a classroom. “If you please.... I discovered a fact, and one must deal with facts. I slept little last night for considering this one. I have reached a definite and final conclusion, and wish the matter to be understood between us once for all, and so disposed of.” “Mr. Pell----” Again he imposed silence upon her. “I am unable to perceive how this distressing condition came into being. It was wholly without intention on my part--against my every instinct. I do not wish to be in love with you.” “Indeed!” said Carmel. “Quite the contrary. Therefore I wish to impress upon you that nothing can come of it.” “And do you suppose----” Once again Carmel essayed to speak; once more he interrupted. “Be so good as to allow me to finish. Please understand my words to be final. I will not marry you. In no circumstances will I make you my wife. I do not want a wife.... It is no fault of mine that I am in love with you, and therefore I shall not permit myself to suffer for what I cannot help. I shall take measures to affect a cure, for the thing, as I see it, is a species of mental ailment.... Therefore, let me repeat, in spite of the condition in which I find myself, you need not expect me to become your husband.... The matter is closed between us.” He turned from her abruptly and became much occupied with the papers upon his desk. As for Carmel, she was in a state of mind. The thing manifestly was an outrage, an indignity, a humiliation, and she was angry. On the other hand, it was absurd, impossibly absurd, inhumanly absurd, and the laughter which struggled to come was only repressed by a wave of pity. The pity engulfed both anger and laughter. Poor, dryly crackling man! What must his life be without human warmth and human emotions! She was able to see the thing impersonally--the dreadful abnormality of his existence, so that when she spoke it was without rancor and gently.