"I suppose that the temptation that we yield to is the temptation?" "Of course. But, Evelyn, you are not going to waste your life in Dulwich. Come and see me to-morrow and, if you like, we'll decide." "On what?" "You know what I mean, dearest." "Yes, I think I do," she said, smiling at once sadly and ardently; "but I'm afraid it wouldn't succeed. I'm not the kind of woman to play the part to advantage." "I'm very fond of you, and I think you're very fond of me." "You don't think about it--you know I am." "Then why did you say you would not come and see me?" "I did not say so. But something tells me that if I did go away with you it would not succeed." "Why do you think that?" "I don't know. Something whispers that it wouldn't succeed. All my people were good people--my mother, my grandmother, my aunts. I never had a relative against whom anything could be said, so I don't know why I am what I am. For I'm only half good. It is you who make me bad, Owen; it isn't nice of you." She flung her arms about him, and then recoiled from him in a sudden revulsion of feeling. "When you go away I shall be miserable; I shall repent of all this ... I'm horrid." She covered her face in her hands. "I didn't know I was like this." A moment after she reached out her hand to him saying-- "You're not angry with me? I can't help it if I'm like this. I should like to go and see you; it would be so much to me. But I must not. But why mustn't I?" "I know no reason, except that you don't care for me." "But you know that isn't so." "Come, dearest, be reasonable. You're not going to stop here all your life playing the viola da gamba. The hour of departure has come," he said, perceiving her very thought; "be reasonable, come and see me to-morrow. Come to lunch, and I'll arrange. You know that you--" "Yes, I believe that," she said, in response to a change which had come into her appreciation. "But can I trust myself? Suppose I did go away, and repented and left you. Where should I go? I could not come back here. Father would forgive me, I daresay, but I could not come back here." "'Repented,' Those are fairy tales," he said lifting her gold hair from her ear and kissing it. "A woman does not leave the man who adores her." "You told me they often did." "How funny you are.... They do sometimes, but not because they repent." Her head was on his shoulder, and she stood looking at him a long while without speaking. "Then you do love me, dearest? Tell me so again." Kissing her gently on the mouth and eyes, he answered-- "You know very well that I do. Come and see me to-morrow. Say you will, for I must go now." "Go now!" "Do you know what time it is? It is past seven." She followed him to the gate of the little garden. The lamps were lighted far away in the suburbs. Again he asked her to come and see him. "I cannot to-morrow; to-morrow will be Sunday."