She handed the letter back to him as though it were a mere nothing, saying simply, “Hawtry was against us from the first. He had more influence than we.” She put it plural from habit. “Hawtry was on the spot, not dawdling on the other side of the continent,” he answered sullenly. The way he put it was brutal to her. “_I_ know the thing’s all right,” he said half to himself; “but the rest of ’em have to know it, too! I’ve got to make ’em! _That’s_ my failure. Florence—as a force I’m nothing. Lord! How I hate the public—and I’m just one of the least of ’em! That’s it,” he said. His chin was sunk on his breast. “The public is slow to see and quick to change. What they think doesn’t matter with good work.” Her mind was busy beyond mere saying. She had never heard him talk in this strain before. She could remember when he had not known that his work was good; and he said “_I_,” not “_we_.” She saw that marked an end. More—he not only separated himself from her, but he divided that self: the musician—the man, and called the man a failure. The letter was not responsible for that. “I’d like to give _you_ a better proof than this of what you’ve done. For, Florence, you have done everything!” That was what he was saying. She put up her hand, warning the words away. “I don’t need proof of what you can do.” “_Don’t_ you?” he questioned, looking at her. “Haven’t you begun lately to suspect I wasn’t worth what you’ve given?” “Tony!” her reproach was a cry. “You know—I couldn’t! But I have taken more than I have given!” An insane passion for confession was on her. But he was following his one idea. “Then why have you avoided me so lately?” She had been expecting it. “Have we ever been much together among people?” He looked at her, baffled, but with something dogged and determined in his face. She had never seen such a look on it before. And she was going to refuse what he was about to ask. How broad his shoulders bulked on the glare of glass! “Do you regret what you said at the dance, then?” he persisted. “No!” She said it with such vehement impulse that he straightened, took a step toward her. “But now you know what a failure I am—?” “Oh, Tony—one failure isn’t failure!” “But,” he gloomed at her, “it is if there’s never anything else!” “There will be,” she said steadily; “but _if_ there never were, who was ever loved for his successes!” “Florence,” he said, “you are—you—oh, I don’t deserve it!” He took her gently by the shoulders. “_Will_ you marry me?” The question was between them, but left each cold. She was a long time looking out through the begonia leaves before she answered—“No.” His hands dropped from her shoulders. She saw with a sort of shock how sure he had been of her! He could hardly take in what she meant. “Do you remember what you said?” His voice, coming after a minute, sounded at a distance to her. She couldn’t speak. She nodded. “Then why—now—this?”