Mary made no reply. She did not look or give the slightest sign that she had heard. But now it was that she did not dare to look at him. The spectacle of this big man badgered by her and by her mother, pleading to her, and pleading, as he and she well knew, hopelessly, would have broken her heart if she looked at him. She had to admire the good masculine fight he made of it. Even his tricks of word and tactic, which she instantly divined, moved her almost to tears; but she feared terribly that if she met his gaze she might not be able to resist his huge helplessness, and that she might be compelled to do whatever he begged of her even in despite of her own wishes. The interval which followed his question weighed heavily upon them all. It was only broken by Mrs. Makebelieve, who began to hum a song as she polished the fire grate. She meant to show her careless detachment from the whole matter, but in the face of Mary's silence she could not keep it up. After a few moments she moved around and said:-- "Why don't you answer the gentleman, Mary?" Mary turned and looked at her, and the tears which she had resisted so long swam in her eyes: although she could keep her features composed she had no further command over her tears. "I'll answer whatever you ask me, mother," she whispered. "Then, tell the gentleman whether you will marry him or not." "I don't want to marry any one at all," said Mary. "You are not asked to marry any one, darling," said Mrs. Makebelieve, "but some one--this gentleman here whose name I don't happen to know. Do you know his name?" "No," said Mary. "My name...." began the policeman. "It doesn't matter, Sir," said Mrs. Makebelieve. "Do you want to marry this gentleman, Mary?" "No," whispered Mary. "Are you in love with him?" Mary turned completely away from him. "No," she whispered again. "Do you think you ever will be in love with him?" She felt as a rat might when hunted to a corner. But the end must be very near; this could not last forever because nothing can. Her lips were parched, her eyes were burning. She wanted to lie down and go asleep and waken again laughing to say--"it was a dream." Her reply was almost inaudible. "No," she said. "You are quite sure? It is always better to be quite sure." She did not answer any more, but the faint droop of her head gave the reply her mother needed.