I did not speak. I could not, for the moment. She spoke first. “You!” she exclaimed. “You--here!” And still I did not speak. Where was the calm with which I was to meet her? Where were the carefully planned sentences which were to explain how I had come and why? I don't know where they were; I seemed to know only that she was there, that I was alone with her as I had never thought or meant to be again, and that if I spoke I should say things far different from those I had intended. She was recovering from her surprise. She came toward me. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why did you come?” I stammered a word or two, some incoherences to the effect that I had not expected to find her there, that I had been told she was at church. She shook her head, impatiently. “I mean why did you come here--to Leatherhead?” she asked. “Why did you come? Did you know--” I interrupted her. If ever I was to explain, or attempt to explain, I realized that it must be at that moment. She might listen to me then, before she had had time to think. Later I knew she would not. “I knew you were here,” I broke in, quickly. “I--we--your aunt knew and we came.” “But HOW did you know? Who told you?” “The--we learned,” I answered. “And we came.” It was a poor explanation--or none at all. She seemed to think it so. And yet she seemed more hurt than offended. “You came--yes,” she said. “And you knew that I left Paris because--Oh, you knew that! I asked you not to follow me. You promised you would not.” I was ashamed, thoroughly ashamed and disgusted with myself for yielding to Hephzy's entreaties. “No, no,” I protested, “I did not promise. I did not promise, Frances.” “But you know I did not wish you to do it. I did not wish you to follow me to Paris, but you did it. I told you you would force me to give up my only means of earning money. You did force me to give it up. I gave it up to please you, for your sake, and now--” “Did you?” I cried, eagerly. “Did you give it up for my sake, Frances? Did you?” “You know I did. You must know it. And now that I have done it, now that I have given up my opportunity and my--my self-respect and my one chance and come here to this--to this place, you--you--Oh, how could you! Wasn't I unhappy enough before? And unhappy enough now? Oh, how could you!” I was more ashamed than ever. I tried desperately to justify my action. “But that was it,” I persisted. “Don't you see? It was your happiness, the thought that you were unhappy which brought me here. I know--you told your aunt how unhappy you had been when you were with these people before. I know how much you disliked them. That was why I came. To ask you to give this up as you did the other. To come with us and BE happy. I want you to come, Frances. Think! Think how much I must want you.” And, for the moment I thought this appeal had some effect. It seemed to me that her resolution was shaken, that she was wavering. “You--you really want me?” she repeated.