"Because you yourself have acknowledged it would not be right," he answered, coldly. Her small, red lips drooped plaintively, she coiled herself up on the sofa in a disconsolate attitude. Thurston stood watching her. The sad, little face staring at the fire, stirred his sympathy. This was the first request he had ever refused. He felt an impulse to press her against his heart and beg her not to grieve—to tell her that he felt her disappointment far deeper than she herself could have any idea of. But pride prevented him. He had lately been chary in his demonstrations. His nature, which at first had sung a pæan over the mere fact that she was his, rejoicing in the lavish display of its love, gradually conscious of no hint of response, only a tacit acceptance, had crept back into its cloak of reserve. He suffered from the repression, becoming at times the victim of a terrible discouragement—that sinking of the heart, inevitable to the thought that one has given one’s very best in vain. He realized what a frail structure he had builded—that beautiful fairy fabric of spider’s webs, illuminated with the tints of the rainbow. Standing, watching Indiana, Thurston remembered the day when she had promised to marry him—that gray, soft, still evening in autumn. It had been like a tender poem. He had likened the little path between the trees upon which they walked, to the dim, narrow aisle of a church, leading to the altar. It had led them to the altar, but he had failed yet to realize the dream, the infinite suggestion beyond. He felt they were still kneeling there. He and the church had done their part. It needed Indiana only to make the bond complete. He suffered in a great measure for her sake alone. Could she respect her own womanhood as his wife when she failed to love him, he asked himself. She, too, might be suffering, without his knowledge. The little figure maintained its disconsolate position. It was only a trivial matter, after all, but he did not want her to harbor the least resentment against him. "Indiana," he said, tenderly, placing his hand on her head, "do you remember the day I asked you to be my wife? Do you forget already the condition upon which you accepted me?" "What condition?" asked Indiana, innocently. "That I should not give in." "Oh!" exclaimed Indiana, falling back on the sofa. If he brought up that justification, there was no longer any ground to argue upon. "I have never in my life broken my word once given. This is our first difference. I must keep my promise to you. No matter how much I suffer, I will not give in." He tucked her in the rug again, extinguished the lamp, and left the room. *CHAPTER XVI.* *An Escapade*