"This girl will do one of two things," said Sheila firmly. "Either she will prove her claim, or she will give up and go back to Boston. You know that." "She'll fight hard, I guess" he admitted. "Either way, Tunis," the girl pursued, "there is bound to be much doubt cast upon my character--upon _me_. If the truth becomes known, I am utterly lost. If it is hushed up, I must go on living a lie--if I stay here." "Don't talk that way!" he exclaimed gruffly. "Of course you'll stay here. If not with the Balls, then with me." "Stop!" she begged him. "Wait! I am going to state the matter plainly as it is. We can no longer dodge it. This is the _truth_ which we have been trying to ignore. I have not been foolish only; I have been wicked. And my greatest sin was in allowing you to link yourself with me so closely." "What do you mean?" he gasped. "Just what I say. It was wrong for me to allow you to be friendly with me before the Balls and other people. I should not have gone to your house last Sunday. I should not have allowed you to introduce me to your Aunt Lucretia." "Ida May!" "That is not my name," she whispered. "Let there be no further mockery between you and me, Tunis. I have been wicked; _we_ have been wicked. We must pay for what we have done. There is no escaping that. I must not keep you as my lover, Tunis. I was wrong--oh! so wrong--last Sunday. Reckless, wicked, drifting with a current, I scarcely knew where." "My dear girl--" "Now I see the rocks ahead, Tunis. I can shut my eyes to them no longer. Disaster is at hand. You shall not be overwhelmed, as I may be overwhelmed at any time. I will not have your ruin on my conscience!" "My ruin?" he repeated. "Ridiculous! My dear girl, you are talking like a mad woman. You cannot snap the tie that binds us. You cannot shoulder all the responsibility for this situation. The sin is as much mine as yours, if it is a sin. I'm in it as deep as you are." "You must not be," she cried. "You can escape. You _shall_ escape." "Suppose I refuse to do so?" And he said it confidently. "Tunis, I have thought of a way out for you," she cried suddenly. "I don't want to hear it." "But you must hear it!" "I will not accept it." "You cannot help yourself," she told him firmly. "Oh, I know what I am about! You may be angry; you will perhaps be laughed at a bit. But to be laughed at is better than to be scorned." "What under the sun do you mean, girl?" he exclaimed, both startled and horrified by her determined words. "Do you think I would desert you in the middle of the current and swim ashore?" "But I will desert you. I am determined to desert you. I refuse to cling to you, a millstone about your neck to drag you down. Ah, Tunis, whether or not that girl makes her claim good, what you and I had hoped for cannot be! An explanation must be made of your part in this frightful affair. That, in itself, must separate you and me."