There was a light of dawn in the room and through the open window blew in the keen air of daybreak. Dickie was standing quite still in the middle of the floor. He was more neat and groomed than Sheila had ever seen him. He looked as though he had stepped from a bath; his hair was sleek and wet so that it was dark above the pure pallor of his face; his suit was carefully put on; his cuffs and collar were clean. He did not have the look of a man that has been awake all night, nor did he look as though he had ever been asleep. His face and eyes were alight, his lips firm and delicate with feeling. Before him Sheila felt old and stained. The smoke and fumes of the bar hung about her. She was shamed by the fresh youthfulness of his slender, eager carriage and of his eyes. "Dickie," she faltered, and stood against the door, drooping wearily, "what are you doing here at this hour?" "What does the hour matter?" he asked impatiently. "Come over to the window. I want you to look at this big star. I've been watching it. It's almost gone. It's like a white bird flying straight into the sun." He was imperative, laid his cool hand upon hers and drew her to the window. They stood facing the sunrise. "Why did you come here?" again asked Sheila. The beauty of the sky only deepened her misery and shame. "Because I couldn't wait any longer than one night. It's sure been an awful long night for me, Sheila ... Sheila--" He drew the hand he still held close to him with a trembling touch and laid his other hand over it. Then she felt the terrible beating of his heart, felt that he was shaking. "Sheila, I love you." She had hidden her face against the curtain, had turned from him. She felt nothing but weariness and shame. She was like a leaden weight tied coldly to his throbbing youth. Her hand under his was hot and lifeless like a scorched rose. "I want you to come away with me from Millings. You can't keep on a-working in that saloon. You can't a-bear to have folks saying and thinking the fool things they do. And I can't a-bear it even if you can. I'd go loco, and kill. Sheila, I've been thinking all night, just sitting on the edge of my bed and thinking. Sheila, if you will marry me, I will promise you to take care of you. I won't let you suffer any. I will die"--his voice rocked on the word, spoken with an awful sincerity of young love--"before I let you suffer any. If you could love me a little bit"--he stopped as though that leaping heart had sprung up into his throat--"only a little bit, Sheila," he whispered, "maybe--?" "I can't," she said. "I can't love you that way even a little bit. I can't marry you, Dickie. I wish I could. I am so tired." She drew her hand away, or rather it fell from the slackening grasp of his, and hung at her side. She looked up from the curtain to his face. It was still alight and tender and pale. "You're real sure, Sheila, that you _never_ could?--that you'd rather go on with this--?"