Well, I've given him up, Jerry. I'll send him home tonight. Don't let's think of him any more. I can't stand having anything come between us again. I can't, Jerry. It makes me so unhappy. I've been wretched since yesterday about Una. That's why I came. I wanted you to know how sorry I am that I spoke to Una the way I did." "Are you, Marcia?" His voice had softened suddenly and from the shuffling of his feet I think he took a pace toward her. "Yes, Jerry dear, contrite. I simply couldn't let another hour pass without coming to ask your forgiveness." He was weakening. Perhaps his arm was around her. I don't know, but his silence was ominous. "I have been _so_ miserable," she murmured. "My conscience has troubled me _terribly_. Oh, I can't tell you how I have suffered. All the evening I thought you would come. I waited for you; I went out on the terrace a hundred times, watching for the lights of your car; but you didn't come, you didn't come, Jerry, and I knew how terribly I had offended you." I couldn't see her but I'm sure she was wringing her pretty white hands. Jerry must have been deeply moved for his voice was shaky. "It didn't matter about me, but a visitor, a guest at Horsham Manor, Marcia, a friend--!" "A friend, yes. Oh, I've been so unhappy about it all--so _miserably_ wretched." Her voice broke and she seemed upon the point of tears. "Why did you, Marcia? Why did you?" he repeated. "I--I--" She appeared to break down and weep and Jerry's voice took on a tone of distress. "Don't, Marcia, please!" "I--I'm trying not to--but--" and she wept anew. "Come," said Jerry's voice. "Sit here a moment. I'm sure it can all be explained. It makes me very unhappy to see you so miserable." They moved nearer and she sat upon the very rock beneath which I lay among the mouldy leaves; so near that I could have reached out and touched the girl's silken ankle with my fingers. Jerry, I think, still stood. "I don't want to--to make you unhappy," she said in a moment. "And it was all my fault, but I just couldn't--couldn't stand it, Jerry." "Stand what?" A pause and then in muffled tones. "Don't you know? Don't you really understand?" "No. I--" "I was mad," she whispered, "mad with jealousy of Una. She was your first love, your first--" "Marcia! You mustn't. It's absurd." "No, no," she protested. "I know. Ever since I first learned that she had--had been in here with you, I--I haven't been able to get her out of mind--I may have appeared to, but I'm not one who forgets things easily; and to meet her at the cabin, the very place where I thought I should--should have you all to myself--it was too much. Jerry. I couldn't stand it. Something--something in me rebelled. I grew cold all over and hard against all the world, even you." "But this was foolish of you. Una, a friend. Surely there was no harm in my seeing her here?"