A woman, however, prefers to be the custodian of her own morals and it gratifies her at most no more than slightly to find that her lover has been plotting with himself to preserve her virtue. It is for the man to ask and for her to deny, sadly but sweetly--and she doesn't care to be anticipated. Especially when she is self-perceptibly interested. "But since you are already separated from----" "Yes, that makes it pleasanter all around, doesn't it?" she led him on most treacherously. "Why, of course--that's what I was saying," he blundered. "Now I can ask you to----" "Mason, I've a frightful headache, the sun perhaps--and I think I will go home and lie down, if you don't mind." He looked up in some amazement at the lord of day half hidden by the haze in his November station, and it suddenly occurred to him that woman is a various and mutable proposition always. "What's the matter with you, anyway?" "Nothing," she responded with deliberate unconvincingness, "nothing in the world, but a headache." She held out her hand. "Don't bother to come with me. We might be seen. Good-bye." And she was off. It was a winding gravel path and she was lost behind a curving hedge before he started in pursuit. She quickened her pace when she heard his step behind and it was almost a walking race before he overtook her. "Georgia," he exclaimed, somewhat ruffled by her unreasonableness. She neither turned her head nor answered. "Georgia!" he repeated more loudly. Then he took her wrist and forcibly arrested her. "Please let me go," she requested with supreme dignity, "you are hurting me." "Not until you hear what I have to say. Will you marry me?" "Marry you?" She dropped her eyes before his frowning ones. The shoulders which had been thrown so squarely back seemed to yield like her will and drooped forward into softer lines. "Yes," he tightened his hold on her wrist, "will you?" "I am a Catholic." "But isn't there some way around that?" Your man of business believes there is some way around everything. "No. Divorce and remarriage aren't permitted to us." "Don't they ever annul a marriage?" "Not if it has been marriage." A look of misery came over his face. She perceived it and went steadily on. "I had a child once--that died." He dropped her hand, unconsciously to himself, but she felt it as a clear signal between them. "You see how little you have known me," she said softly. "Poor old fellow, I'm sorry. Too bad it had to end like this." Her eyes were now swimming in tears which she did not try to conceal. "Don't you see, dear, that is why I kept putting off telling you things about my affairs, and why I had tried to keep it--friendship, because I knew when we came as far as this we would have to stop." "It will never stop," he said tensely, "never." Response seemed to sweep through her suddenly, bewildering her by its unexpected strength. "Perhaps not," she assented slowly, "if--if we--dare."