His voice broke. He had been talking on a carefully emotionless dead level, but now he suddenly stopped as if he had come to the end of his control. But he was only silent a moment, and went on: "I cared so much that I thought you must. That's a queer thing, isn't it? You've known all your life that other people think if they care enough the other person will care, and you know they're idiots. And then your time comes, and you go and are the same old idiot yourself. . . . Queer. Well, I'm sorry, Marjorie. Shall I go now? We can think about what we'd better do next time we talk it over." "Oh, please, please!" begged Marjorie. "Oh, Francis, I feel like a dog--a miserable, little coward-dog. And--and I don't know why you're making all this up. I--I haven't said anything like what----" He put his arm around her, not in the least as if he were her lover. It only felt protecting, not like a man's touch. "I would be glad to think you cared for me. But I am almost sure you don't. Everything you have said, and every one of your actions since we came in, have seemed to me as if you didn't. It isn't your fault, poor little thing. It's mine for hurrying you into it. . . . Marjorie, Marjorie--_do_ you?" There was an intense entreaty in his tone. But she knew that only the truth would do. "No," she said, dropping her head. "I thought not," he said, rising stiffly and crossing to the door. "Well, I'll go now. I'll come back some time to-morrow, whenever it's most convenient for you, and we'll discuss details." She ran after him. She did feel very guilty. "Oh, Francis--Francis! Please don't go! I'm sure I'll feel the way I should when I've tried a little longer!" He stopped for a moment, but only to write something down on a piece of paper. "There's my telephone number," he said. "No, Marjorie, I can't stay any longer. This has been pretty bad. I've got to go off and curl up a minute, I think, if you don't mind. . . . Oh, dearest, don't you see that I _can't_ stay? I'll have myself straightened out by to-morrow, but----" He had been acting very reasonably up to now. But now he flung himself out the door like a tornado. It echoed behind him. Marjorie did not try to keep him. She sat still for a minute longer, shivering. Then she began to cry. She certainly did not want him for her husband, but equally she did not want him to go off and leave her. So she went over to the davenport again, where she could cry better, and did wonders in that line, in a steady, low-spirited way, till Lucille came breezily in.