It was nearly day before he slept, and so he awoke tired and restless. And then came rage at himself--he went out and walked again, and stormed and scolded. He would not permit this, he had work to do. And he made up his mind that he would not allow himself to think about the matter for three days. By that time the truth would be clearer to him; and he meant to settle this question with his reason, and not with his blind desire. He adhered to his resolution firmly. But when the three days were past, and he tried to think about it, it was only to be swept away in another storm of emotion. It seemed that the more tightly he pent this river up, the fiercer was its rush when finally it broke loose. For always his will was paralyzed by that suggestion that he might be doing harm to Corydon! At last he made up his mind that he must speak to her; and one afternoon he came and knelt beside her and put his arms about her. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I’ve something to ask you about.” Now to Corydon the mind of Thyrsis was like an open book. For days she had known that something was disturbing him. But also she had known that he was not ready to tell her. “What is it?” she asked. “It’s something very important,” he said. “Yes, dear.” “You know, I went to see the doctor the other day.” “Yes.” “And he told me--he thinks we are doing each other harm by the way we are living.” “What way, Thyrsis?” “By not being really married. He says you are suffering because of it.” “But Thyrsis!” she cried, in astonishment. “I’m not!” “He says you wouldn’t know it, Corydon. It would keep you nervous and upset.” “But dear,” she said, “I’m perfectly happy!” “Are you sure of it?” “Perfectly sure.” “And--and if it was ever otherwise--you would tell me?” “Why, yes.” “And are you sure of _that_?” She hesitated; and when she tried to answer, her voice was a whisper--“I think so, dear.” There was a pause. “Thyrsis,” she exclaimed, suddenly, “I would have a child!” “No, you needn’t,” he said; and he told her what the doctor had said. It was quite as new to her as it had been to him, and even more startling. “I see,” she said, in a low voice. “Listen, Corydon,” he whispered, “do you think you love me at all that way?” “I don’t know,” she answered. “I never thought of such a thing.” “Do you think you could learn to love me so?” “How can I tell, Thyrsis? It’s so strange to me. It--it frightens me.” He looked up at her; and he saw that a flush was mottling her throat, and spreading over her cheeks. He saw the wild look in her eyes also; and he turned away. “Very well, dearest,” he said. “I don’t want to disturb you.”