“You weren't made for a hell like you're living. You were meant to be happy--and I was meant to make you happy. Every morning when I open my eyes--do you know what I think? I think it's another day we oughta be happy in, you and me.” He took her suddenly by the shoulder and brought her up, facing him, where he could look into her eyes. “We've only got just one life to live, Val!” he pleaded. “And we could be happy together--I'd stake my life on that. I can't go on forever just being friends, and eating my heart out for you, and seeing you abused--and what for? Just because a preacher mumbled some words over you two! Only for that, you wouldn't stay with him over-night, and you know it! Is _that_ what ought to tie two human beings together--without love, or even friendship? You hate him; you can't look me in the eyes and say you don't. And he's tired of you. Some other woman would please him better. And I could make you happy!” Val broke away from his grasp, and retreated until the table was between them. Her listlessness was a thing forgotten. She was panting with the quick beating of her heart. “Kent--don't, pal! You mustn't say those things--it's wicked.” “It's true,” he cried hotly. “Can you look at me and say it ain't the truth?” “You've spoiled our friendship, Kent!” she accused, while she evaded his question. “It meant so much to me--just your dear, good friendship.” “My love could mean a whole lot more,” he declared sturdily. “But you mustn't say those things--you mustn't feel that way, Kent!” “Oh!” He laughed grimly. “Mustn't I? How are you going to stop me?” He stared hard at her, his face growing slowly rigid. “There's just one way to stop me from saying such wicked things,” he told her. “You can tell me you don't care anything about me, and never could, not even if that down-east conscience of yours didn't butt into the game. You can tell me that, and swear it's the truth, and I'll leave the country. I'll go so far you'll newer see me again, so I'll never bother you any more. I can't promise I'll stop loving you--but for my own sake I'll sure try hard enough.” He set his teeth hard together and stood quiet, watching her. Val tied to answer him. Evidently she could not manage her voice, for he saw her begin softly beating her lips with her fist, fighting to get back her self-control. Once or twice he had seen her do that, when, womanlike, the tears would come in spite of her. “I don't want you to go a-away,” she articulated at last, with a hint of stubbornness. “Well, what _do_ you want? I can't stay, unless--” He did not attempt to finish the sentence. He knew there was no need; she understood well enough the alternative.